


Beyond the Edge

by Amelior8or



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Building from 3a and 3b, Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, Gen, Not Canon Compliant, Pack Dynamics, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Season 4 Reconception, discussion of self-harm, season 4
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-05
Updated: 2014-08-14
Packaged: 2018-02-07 12:32:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 51,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1899174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amelior8or/pseuds/Amelior8or
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Beacon Hills will always be haunted by the legacy of death, Scott,” she said. “It is inevitable, and not even you are capable of stopping it.”</p>
<p>“I can,” he snarled. “And I will. I’ll do whatever it takes.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>A humble reconception of how Season 4 should be, given the events of 3a and 3b.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Legacy

**Author's Note:**

> This is in no way meant to be a rewrite of current Season 4 of Teen Wolf as it's airing. It's my projection of an entirely new Season 4 arc, that directly responds to the events of 3a and 3b – specifically looking at the consequences of Allison's death, Stiles's possession, and the discovery that town is an actual beacon for supernatural creatures. While I'll be posting the chapters concurrently with the air dates, any echoes/similarities is likely coincidental, unless otherwise mentioned.
> 
> This chapter is Beta'd by the lovely and incredibly patient Zahnie, who was willing to do this at the VERY last minute, and dedicated to Wordscannotlie, who was willing to give the encouragement I needed to actually get this chapter out there.

California doesn’t get cold. Not really. Of course, recent data from climatological experts has been forecasting the chillier consequences for global warming for ages. And while even the most defiant nay-sayers are starting to have their eyes opened by the “impossible” snow storms in Florida, there are still some incredibly inconvenient factions of society who still haven’t seem to caught the message.  
  
Namely, the clothing retailers.  
  
And so Lydia was faced with the peevish difficulty of trying to track down clothes suitable for late November that were also more attractive than the wool sacks _every_  nearby mall apparently considered adequate. Which was why she was busy fiddling with an algorithm comprehensive enough to project the expected relationship between forecasted fashion trends and anticipated shifts in weather patterns.  
  
She rankled at the fact that she had to bother with something this obvious in the first place, but it couldn’t be helped. And it’s not like she had anything else to do at the moment. The rest of the class was _still_  trying to wrap their heads around the basic principles of evolutionary biology. She might was as well put her time to good use. It was either this or watch the vein in Greenberg’s temple throb in time to the ticking classroom clock.  
  
Don’t say that she wasn’t a humanitarian, though. The last year had given her a fairly rude awakening in terms of how she’d been ranking her priorities, and while no one should overlook the importance of attractive and practical clothes, there were a few things that were more deserving of her attention. Namely, everyone’s unspoken agreement to do whatever it takes to help each other make it through the semester with something resembling an acceptable GPA. And so Lydia paused what she was doing long enough to reach over to Scott McCall’s notebook and clearly write “GENOTYPE” and “PHENOTYPE” in the margins.  
  
Scott’s head snapped back from the old heat vent he had been staring at, probably distracted by the laboured clicking it was making in its sad attempt to produce some warmth. He blinked at Lydia, and was just opening his mouth to ask what she was doing when the teacher walked up and said, “Scott?”  
  
“Wh… oh. Yeah?”  
  
Lydia went back to work.   
  
“Can you tell me the two types of genetic expression that you were supposed to read about for today?”   
  
Scott grimaced. “Uh, no.”  
  
Lydia kicked him under the table.  
  
“Oh! I mean, yeah! I can! They’re, uh, genotype and phenotyre. Pheno _type_!”  
  
Lydia could almost _hear_  the teacher’s eye roll. “Thank you, Scott. Any chance you can tell me the difference?”  
  
For a moment, Scott threw a wild look of desperation towards Lydia, who absolutely ignored it. Scott would be fine if he admitted he didn’t know. The concepts were complex enough that it couldn’t be held against him.  
  
“Uh, no. Not even a little bit.”  
  
“That’s fine. Anyone else want to jump in?” Amateur. That tactic would get no response whatsoever, and everyone knew it. Lydia braced herself for at least two tedious minutes of silence.  
  
What she got instead was the sharp click of heels and a shadow falling across her notebook.  
  
“Lydia,” the teacher said, and Lydia’s pen froze on the paper. That was the tone that was used on her at home, whenever her parents occasionally forgot that she wasn’t in need of parenting anymore. Which meant that the use of that tone here was _unacceptable_.  
  
And so Lydia looked up, smiled a very specific smile, and said “Yes, mother?”  
  
Ms. Martin raised an eyebrow. “I’d like you to pay attention in this class.”  
  
Lydia picked up her pen and got back to work. “I’d like to learn something useful, then.”  
  
Ms. Martin smiled. A little teasing, but genuine. “Then by all means, please explain to Scott how genotypes and phenotypes work.”  
  
Lydia caught her mother’s eye and let herself the tiniest hint of a smile in return. They _did_  share their love of looking impressive, and it wouldn’t hurt to indulge it a bit. “Genotypes are the form of gene expression hardwired into you at the molecular level. They form the basic, unchanging structure of who you are. Eye colour, shoe size, ear shape, ability to taste certain flavours – all genotypic. Phenotypic expression is initially determined by genetic composition, but can be effectively changed by environmental factors. Like getting braces to fix crooked teeth.” Lydia tilted her head. “Or going through complex chemical treatment to compensate for poor skin.”  
  
Her mother’s lips pressed together slightly before she caught herself, but she raised her eyebrow. “What you’re describing is more of a conscious shaping of phenotypically influenced traits. Phenotypic plasticity is an adaptive response to environmental factors beyond your control.” She tilted her head. “The more _traditional_ examples are a tree growing visibly gnarled if it grows in highly windy conditions, or how human height is influenced by nutrition.”  
  
Lydia shrugged, and gave a quick scan of her mom’s face. “I figured I’d go with an example that was more... immediate.” There was definitely a satisfied twitch around her mom’s most professional smile, even as Lydia could  _feel_  Scott becoming more and more alarmed by the concepts being thrown around. _This_  was the Lydia Martin she was supposed to be. The Lydia Martin who was good at _everything_  and in complete control of her environment. The Lydia Martin that was as a shaking, teary mess was certainly overdone. Absently, she tapped her pen in time to the clicking heat vent. She was more than ready to retire the version of her that succumbed rather than adapted to adversity. Frankly, all things considered, she was coping better than anyone else since the nogitsune and Allison’s…since Allison.  
  
“... about personality?” Lydia jerked in surprise at the sound of Stiles’ voice behind her. She carefully did not frown. Four minutes, twenty-one seconds. She hadn’t left the room, and she hadn’t even missed much of the conversation, but Lydia had grown a severe dislike of any time she lost track of. It’s not like Stiles was easy to ignore. He was gnawing his lip as he stared at Ms. Martin, spinning his pen with a speed that was nearly manic. “Is personality phenotypic?"  
  
“Absolutely,” Ms. Martin said. “There tends to be family dispositions towards things like anger and anxiety, and they can be significantly changed to a greater or lesser degree through things like lifestyle and individual experience.”  
  
“So that’s it, then?” Stiles spun his pen through his fingers twice more and then held very, very still. “If something happens to you, and it’s big enough to change you, are you stuck? Do you become a gnarled tree forever?”  
  
Lydia swallowed, and refused to show anything other than a completely bored expression. Stiles was horrible at nonchalance, even if his unease was valid enough. The anxiety that the person you used to be, the person you used to  _like_  being, had been taken away from you, cut off from your self against your will from inside your  _own mind_  by a force too strong for you to overcome… can be difficult to face. Stiles apparently coped by finding some way to talk about it, even if he obviously didn’t want to talk about the way the cold nausea never stops curling through you, echoing a shiver that can still leave you shaking night after night. And so he’d talk, even in the form of a sloppy metaphor bastardizing basic scientific principles.  
  
Lydia was less interested in words. Words were simply a vehicle for _reason_ , which was more important. She had never once said a single word about that cold anxiety, not to Allison, not to the therapists her parents insisted on, and not Stiles, even after everything. No a single soul. She pressed her lips together. She had _planned_  to keep it that way.   
  
“No,” she said, turning back to her algorithm. “You won’t stay gnarled forever. Pay attention. The entire point of phenotypic expression is that it’s impermanent. If you want to change the forms that are expressed, you change the environment of the subject. It’s not about where you’re from of what you’ve been through. It’s about how you conquer what the world throws at you."  
  
Stiles leaned forward, nearly chewing through his lips and gazing at her for a long, long moment. Then he gave a sharp nod and went back to spinning his pen. Lydia made sure to roll her eyes for appearance’s sake. No one else needed to remember that she had received the same looks that Stiles received now, looks given to the people who disappear into the woods of Beacon Hills only to come back haunted and strained.  
  
“It’s not undone, though,” Scott said softly. “Even if you want to, there are some things in your environment that you can’t fix. You can’t bring them back when they’re gone.” He had crumpled the notebook page that Lydia had scribbled on, crushing it in his fist. “No matter how badly you want to."  
  
Ms. Martin sighed, and the eye roll she gave was far less forgiving than her daughter’s. “So are we now at the point of high school where everything is actually an analogy for your own, much more important life? Or are you just that desperate to avoid discussing Biology?”  
  
“Mother,” Lydia hissed. It wasn’t like her indifference was something new. Other than a quick check in to make sure she didn’t need to take Lydia shopping for funeral clothes, there wasn’t a single mention of Allison in her house. But there’s no way that Ms. Martin didn’t know what Scott was talking about here.   
  
Scott narrowed his eyes. “Someone very close to us just died. Do you want us to ignore that?” This time, Lydia put her pen down for good, and contemplated the strategic effectiveness of placing her hand on his shoulder. Scott was always kind, but his kindness had been… shorter-lived these last few weeks. Brittle. Nothing concerning, but worth monitoring when someone’s temperament is supplemented by the strength of an alpha werewolf.  
  
“Would you like us to be attentive to the pain of others as you are, then?” Ms. Martin asked, and this time, Lydia did frown. Something was…off. Ms. Martin loathed confrontation if there was any sort of emotion involved. And she _never_  talked about mourning. But her voice began to rise above the rattle of the clicking vent, laced with more disquiet than Lydia had ever heard from her. “This is Beacon Hills, Scott,” she said. "A lot of people have died, and I doubt you even gave any of the others a passing thought.”  
  
Scott’s other fist clenched to match his first. “That’s _not true_.”  
  
“No? Look around this class, Scott. Look at the empty chairs.” It wasn’t just volume increasing, but pitch, drowning out the uneasy murmurs in the room. "Look at the teacher’s position I’ve been brought in to occupy. Every one represents a death. Just because this is your first time inconvenienced by mourning doesn’t mean you deserve special treatment when the rest of the town has no choice but to keep going.”  Lydia stood up. Her mother’s shoulders were stiff, her nails a steady, mocking tap at the edge of Scott’s desk. She flung away her daughter’s reaching hand and shrieked, “Beacon Hills will always be haunted by the legacy of death. It is inevitable. And not even you are capable of stopping it.”  
  
Scott jumped to his feet, the clang of this toppling chair echoing through the room. “I _can_  stop it. And I _will not_  let anyone else die in this town,” he snarled. Lydia kept staring at the odd slackness in her mother’s face. She didn’t bother glancing at Scott to scan for claws or that dangerous flash of red. He’d never let his control slip like that.  
  
Stiles, apparently wasn’t so sure. He was already standing right behind Scott, arms stretched out, palms open. “Hey, Scott? Buddy,” he said, a soft croak in his voice. “Maybe you should take a walk. Get some fresh air, _anchor yourself_  or something?"  
  
“You should do exactly that, Scott.” Ms. Martin said, suddenly serene and absolutely composed. “Go take a walk, and make sure that you’re back in time for your detention this afternoon.”  
  
Lydia almost fell over at the sudden pull on her arm. She was about to snap at Stiles for nearly bruising her when beside her Scott, eyes screwed shut, gave a wordless yell of fury and knocked over his desk so hard that it splintered when it hit the ground. As he stormed out, slamming the door behind him, Stiles turned to the rest of the staring class with a shrug. “That’s why you eat your Wheaties, folks.”  
  
Lydia stared at the desk, trying to shut out the whispers around her. Something was happening. Scott had destroyed the desk, but there were no claw marks. Controlled, but… brittle. In a way that Scott McCall never was.  
  
She looked up to see her mother already striding back up to the front the class, heels tapping the same steady click that had been following Lydia all class. “Now, who wants to explain the difference between gametes and zygotes?”  
_________________  
  
Kira doesn’t sing, or hum, or whistle, and couldn’t carry a tune if for some horrible reason the fate of the world relied on it.  
  
But she’s _really_  good at bouncing along to music. It’s like her central skill. Well, that and fighting with a katana. And wielding lightning. But those are new skills. Bopping along to music is a craft she had been working on since the first time she was given those velcro shoes that light up with each step. And she could bop like a champ. Which was exactly what she was doing. It would have been more ideal if she had proper speakers going around her, but she was in the library, and that wasn’t allowed. So she settled for using her headphones while she wandered along on her hunt for the perfect corner to sit in.  
  
Which is why she almost missed the book that nearly beamed her in the face.  
  
“WHOA!” she said. Then, because she was in a library, she pulled out her headphones and said more quietly, “whoa.”  
  
“I thought you had some sort of foxy survival sense. Shouldn’t you be less startled?”  
  
Kira blinked, and looked around. She saw Malia Tate sitting off to her left. “Oh, hi! And I guess I don’t, really. My reflexes are really good, and I think I can jump over a car or something if I really try, but I don’t have super senses or anything. I can’t even turn into anything, like a werewolf.” Kira tilted her head. “Or a werecoyote.”  
  
Malia was staring at her for a minute, then looked down. “Well, it’s not like I can do much turning myself these days, so I’m sorry I almost hit you.”  
  
Kira grinned. “Don’t worry about it. Being a teenage girl makes me want to throw things, too, and I’ve been one for years. Not that you only just turning into one makes you any less of a teenage girl. Besides, I’m sure there was something really frustrating about –“ she looked at the cover of the book she picked up “– _Matilda_.”  
  
Malia scowled and propped her chin in her hand. “The story’s fine. What I remember of it, anyways. I just can’t read it.”  
  
Kira blinked again, then nodded. “That makes sense. Literacy doesn’t really seem all that important when you’re out in the forest hunting all day. I guess you haven’t read anything in, what, ten years?”  
  
Malia dropped her hand and raised her chin defiantly. “So what if I haven’t.”  
  
“So jumping right back into a full book doesn’t make sense! We should get you started on the more basic stuff first, at least until you get the hang of it again. Or maybe relearn it? I don’t know how long it takes brains to forget things like reading.”  
  
Kira had already started pulling up phonetics apps on her phone while she was talking, and when she looked up, both of Malia’s eyebrows were raised. “We?” the other girl asked.  
  
“Oh, it doesn’t have to be!” Kira said. “I don’t want to get in the way if you think I will. But I used to do a bit of tutoring back in my old hometown, so I can give you a few pointers.”  
  
Malia rolled her eyes and looked back down at her notebook, but kicked the chair opposite from her far enough out from the table that Kira could sit down. “I’m not paying you,” she said. “My dad might, though. He keeps going on about getting me ‘nothing but the best,’ so he’ll probably fork over a small fortune if you convince him you’re worth it.”  
  
“It’s not really about the money – I just really like the company,” Kira said, plopping down in the seat, and realizing that she hadn’t been exactly _asked_  to join Malia at the table. Maybe Malia was just kicking things now instead of throwing things. “Is it okay if I sit? You can ask me to go if you want. I don’t mean to get into your space.”  
  
Malia was looking up at Kira now, glaring. Maybe not glaring, but at least frowning. “Why are you doing this?”  
  
“Uh, doing what?”  
  
“Being… nice. Don’t you remember that time I tried to maul you?” Malia nodded her head towards the rest of the library. “My locker is beside a girl who keeps dodging me like I have fleas or something. And a person I’ve never even talked to told me today that I have ‘weird hair.’ I haven’t been human for a while, but I was human long enough to remember that people aren’t nice unless they want something.”   
  
Kira shrugged. “Scott told me about that. It was Stiles’ fault for taking your sister’s doll, and you were just acting on instinct. I can’t hold that against you.” She put down _Matilda_ , and pushed it towards Malia. “I just like being nice to people. And I know what it’s like to not like being the new person. Even if you technically didn’t really transfer in from anywhere.”  
  
Malia was silent as she reached over for the book, not looking away from it while she ran her tongue over her teeth. “Yeah, well, if you have the time, I guess I could use the help.  If I get the hang of reading again, I’m allowed to get a phone, and apparently you don’t get to be a real teenager unless you’re able to text.”  
  
“The majority of teenagers use their phone for sexting, snapchats, and checking the time. None of those require any impressive language comprehension skills, trust me.” Lydia said as she walked up. “The boys will be joining us in a bit, by the way. Scott got detention for breaking school property.”  
  
“What? Is Scott okay?” Kira asked.  
  
“What’s a snapchat?” Malia asked.  
  
“Technology used by people idiotic enough to believe that data recording is hard. And Scott’s fine, though his temper could use some work.” Lydia added the second bit kind of absently, turning and tilting her head as she spoke. “Do you _hear_  that?”  
  
Malia raised an eyebrow, but Kira sat up straighter. “You mean, do I hear anything other than normal school library noises? Not even a little.” She had a _very_  healthy respect for Lydia’s listening abilities. Apparently there’s some debate on how reliable they'd been, but they were used to save Kira’s life before Lydia even really knew who she was, so Kira was more than happy to humour Lydia. “Why? What do _you_  hear?"  
  
“Clicking.” Kira watched as Lydia pressed her lips together, staring off at one of the walls. “I thought it was the vents, but I’ve been hearing it _everywhere_ , and I can’t get it out of my head.”  
  
“Are you sure it’s a click, and not a tick?” Malia asked. When Kira and Lydia turned to her, she shrugged. “You probably couldn’t tell, but you’ve honing in on all the closest clocks around here.”  
  
“Whoa,” Kira said. “Can banshees actually hear _time_? Is that a thing?”   
  
Lydia frowned. “No. It’s never happened to me before, and I’ve seen nothing about it in my reading on banshee mythology.”  
  
Malia tilted her head. “So? Maybe you missed something about it.”  
  
“Trust me,” Lydia said. “I read _extensively_.”  
  
Malia folded her arms across her chest and rolled her eyes so hard Kira was kind of worried she’d hurt herself. “ _Fine_. You’re an expert reader, I’ll take your word for it. What do banshees hear, then?”  
  
“Death,” Lydia sighed. “Nothing but death. But death in nearly every form. Banshees almost universally scream for the death of innocent or noble people, can find a dying or recently dead body, can hear the voices of the dead, can hear when people are close to death, and can even use an artifact from a dead person to hear what they knew.” Kira wasn’t the best at judging the general paleness of people, but while Lydia was talking, she didn’t really look too great. Her eyes had drifted down during the list, which kind of made the circles under them hard to miss, and the hang of her head just made her hair seem less… bouncy. Then Lydia took a deep breath and raised her chin, eyebrow ached, hair tossed, and perfectly composed. “So no. Not time. Just death."  
  
Kira felt kind of like she was eavesdropping in that weird moment she caught that glimpse of Lydia. It’s not like they actually  _knew_  each other, not really. Well, not more than two people fighting on the same side to kill a supernatural possession demon really know each other. But it didn’t really seem like Lydia was the sort of person who liked people seeing her anything less than flawless. Kira only knew Allison enough to know that her dying was _terrible_ , and she couldn’t even imagine what it was like for Lydia, to _hear_  her death and to _know_  it was coming.  
  
Which is why she felt extra awful when the idea struck. “If it’s some kind of clock, do you think that – maybe – it’s like a countdown? Or like a timer to, uh, death?”  
  
Lydia stared at her, eyes wide. “But that’s… I’m hearing it everywhere. _Everywhere_. At the school, at home, at the grocery store. If it’s a countdown, then when it stops…”  
  
“Then when it stops,” Malia said, “we make sure we’re more than ready for whatever is stopping it?”  
  
Lydia and Kira exchanged a glance. Maybe it’s not a terrible thing that Kira’s skill set is a bit bigger than bopping.  
  
“Well,” Kira said, “We’re all meeting up tonight, right? We haven’t really been all together since that night with the nogitsune, so maybe we can talk about it as a group and figure out some sort of game plan?"  
  
Malia nodded. “Yeah, we should do that. I don’t like being caught unprepared.” She snorted. “Though when I was little, I was pretty certain becoming a proper teenager involved a lot less combat training.”  
  
Lydia gave a soft smile. “When I was little, I was convinced that all teenagers did was kiss all the time.” She tilted her head, her smile settling into a smirk. “I’m glad I cleared up _that_  bit of censured information."  
  
Malia shrugged. “Kissing seems fun enough. I don’t see why everyone is going crazy for it, though. Whenever I try to get anywhere in this school, there’s a person around every corner trying to choke on someone else’s tongue.”  
  
Kira grimaced, because that was an image that wasn’t really… appealing. “Apparently one of the main legacies of WWII was a baby boom, because everyone wanted to reaffirm that they were alive. Maybe that’s kind of what’s happening here. You know, ‘cuz of all the murdered people.” She then sucked in a breath, and turned to Lydia. “I’m so sorry. I don’t mean that everyone wants to have sex when their friend gets stabbed. Oh god, I need to shut up now.”  
  
Lydia waved a hand in dismissal. “There’s nothing wrong with a healthy sex drive. Just as long as you ask for what you want and the other person never forgets how easily you can destroy them."  
  
“Your relationships must be fun,” Malia muttered.  
  
“You make it seem so easy,” Kira shook her head. “I’m a lot better at fighting off monsters than going up to someone and asking for…that."  
  
“Think of it as an investment in long-term health,” Lydia said. “Oxytocin makes you more confident, relieves stress, and improves the function of brain cells. The more bases you hit, the more oxytocin you get. It’s in your best interest to get a little wild."  
  
“Bases?” Malia asked.  
  
“Ways to measure how far you’ve gone with someone else. Second is where things get fun, and third is where the rumour mill gets interested.”  
  
“First can be fun, too,” Kira protested, biting her lip as her line of sight drifted to the library doors. Scott had just pushed them open and was heading in their direction, Stiles trailing behind. Even though it was kind of cold out, Scott was just wearing a short-sleeved shirt, and the way it fit was… nice. Really nice.  
  
“That explains nothing useful,” Malia rolled her eyes, and turned her own gaze to watch as Scott and Stiles walked up to their table in the library. “Stiles, how many ‘bases’ did we go that night?”  
  
Stiles froze, eyes wide in that extremely horrified way that Kira personally reserved for all the moments when her dad was in the same public space as she was. His jaw snapped up from where it was hanging open, then sort of twitched a few times. He licked his lips as his stare fell on Malia’s _Matilda_  book, carefully ignoring the very interested looks _everyone_  was giving him.  
  
“Uuhhhh. That – That was, uh…”  
  
“So!” Kira said, then winced as every turned to stare at her instead. “How about that combat training tonight?”  
  
“Yeah, training!” Scott jumped in, crowding in front of Stiles as he gave a grateful smile to Kira. “It’s, uh, not happening. Not tonight, anyways. My dad really wants to do dinner tonight. He won’t take no for an answer, and Mom actually _agreed_  with him.” And just like that, the smile was gone. It wasn’t like it was he was scowling, really, but the lines in his face suddenly tightened, and the kind of Scott who sat beside a new girl in an abandoned hallway sunk away in favour of the kind of Scott who would get himself detention for breaking school property.  
  
Kira looked down. She didn’t _really_  know what was between Scott and Allison, but she knew that they were together before, and that of everyone, he took her death the hardest. She kind of wished that there was some sort of new-girl etiquette that she could read up on. Maybe there’d be a chapter on How Long To Wait Before Talking To The Boy You Like After He Sees His Ex Stabbed By Your Mom’s Pet Minions.  
  
Stiles stepped out from behind Scott, patting him on the shoulder. “So Scotty and I were talking about giving all of you a Friday night off and meeting up tomorrow morning. Hopefully, everything evil that might be out to get us will follow and unspoken code of not attacking us unless it’s dark and creepy out, so we can enjoy some daylight hours together violence-free. And I can, uh, give rides to anyone who needs them.” He seemed to have recovered from earlier, but when looked from Kira to Lydia, his eyes sort of…veered as they passed Malia.   
  
“I can pick up Kira,” Scott said. When Kira’s head snapped around to stare at him, he shrugged with a tiny smile. “You’re on the way.”  
  
“Thanks.” Kira grinned. She was nowhere near the way.  
  
Lydia turned to Malia. “Want me to come get you?”  
  
“Nope. I’m walking.” Malia stretched. “My dad hasn’t let me out of his sight when I’m not in school, so this is the only chance I’ve had at fresh air in weeks.”  
  
“Whatever,” Lydia said, looking at her nails. "Let me know if your dad doesn’t want you going out by yourself, then. I’ll pick you up early and stop at the outlet mall near your place. If you can’t be bothered to wait for me while I shop, I won’t hold it against you."  
  
Malia tilted her head, as if she didn’t really know how to react. “Sure… thanks."  
  
“All right,” Stiles said, clapping his hands. "Dad wants to talk to Derek as soon he’s up tomorrow, so I can just bring him with me. I think that covers everyone.”  
  
“How’s Derek doing?” Kira asked. She hadn't seen him since the day that went to go get him, and he’d looked _awful_  – covered in blood and black veins. She hadn’t even known what was going on that night when Scott called her, demanding to know how quickly she could get to the school and warning her to bring her katana.  
  
Stiles shrugged. “Dunno. Nobody has seen him since the night where Lydia's screamolocation found him, full of bullets courtesy of Kate freaking Argent.” Kira watched as he dragged a hand down his face. “Deaton's hung on to him for the last couple of days, but Dad’s been after him to make some kind of statement. We’re gonna do it in our kitchen and not the station because armed attacks by a psychotic and undead ex is apparently the kind of thing that needs  _editing_."  
  
“Is Kate a zombie?” Malia asked, frowning.  
  
“She’s not dead, if that’s what you’re asking.” Lydia said, pressing her lips together. “But I watched her die. So we don’t know yet what exactly she is.”  
  
“Is she really bad?” Kira held up her hands, because she knew how ridiculous that question sounded. “I mean, other than the Derek-shooting-zombie thing.”  
  
Stiles gave a soft sigh. “She burned down a house with an entire family in it, just because they were werewolves. And she did it by seducing a teenager.”  
  
Scott twisted around to stare at Stiles, while Kira felt her stomach churn at the idea. “What? Who?” he asked.  
  
“That’s not the point,” Lydia said briskly. “She targeted Derek because she wants to finish what she started, but I think she preparing for something bigger.” She paused. “I’ve been hearing things again.”  
  
Stiles frowned, and Scott spun back around to face her. “What are you hearing? Anything we can work with?"  
  
“Ticking. We think it’s a countdown,” Lydia shared a glance with Malia, who still looked like she wasn’t sure which category to slot a banshee into: ally or predator. “I don’t know for what, but it’s not stopping.”  
  
“Well, chalk that under our ‘things that are freaking ominous’ list.” Stiles shook his head. “If Kate really is planning something nasty, we need to get the dirt on her _yesterday_. Dad’s digging up what he can, but we really need to get a hold of Chris Argent.”  
  
Scott scowled. “I still can’t get a hold of him. He won’t answer his emails and his phone’s dead. All I got was a postcard from Isaac last week saying that he’s taking care of family business and needs time.”  
  
“There are other Argents we can talk to,” Lydia said.  
  
Stiles rolled his eyes “You on speaking terms with someone else in the Argent family?"  
  
Kira could have _sworn_  that Lydia was going to snap out something in response, but after a blink, all Lydia did was disinterestedly check her nails. “The Argents are an entire clan, Stiles. We don’t necessarily have to track down Chris to get the information we need.”  
  
“You’re right. We can’t wait on him to get back, not if people are in danger.” Scott turned back again. “Stiles, think your dad can try digging up some of the others?”  
  
Stiles was staring at Lydia with a frown, chewing his bottom lip in distraction. “Yeah, sure. In the meantime, Lydia, did you find anything in your reading about how to amplify your hearing? Or at least focus it somehow?”  
  
Lydia shook her head. “There’s an indication that banshee communities are close-knit and _very_  secretive about their ways. Apparently the majority of their history and teaching isn’t even written down, it’s just passed along orally.” She frowned. “Which isn’t _surprising_ , but it’s inconvenient for me. I’m still not even sure how I _became_  a banshee.”  
  
Malia snorted. “You mean banshee-itis isn’t genetic?”  
  
Kira blinked. “Wait. _Is_  it genetic? Do you think there’s anyone else in your family who might be a banshee? Someone who can like… train you?”  
  
Scott tilted his head. “Wouldn’t your mom have told you by now that you were born with these powers?”  
  
“And wouldn’t they have started showing up before this year?” Stiles added.  
  
“I…” Lydia paused, apparently struck by a thought. “I don’t know. I’ll ask my mom about it.” She looked at the time on her phone. “I should leave now if I want to catch her before she leaves for her manicure."  
  
Scott frowned at her for a moment, his eyebrows tilted and scrunched, before he nodded. “All right then. I guess we'll all meet tomorrow morning?” He turned to Kira. “I’ll text you before I pick you up."  
  
Kira wanted to chase after Scott as he walked away with Stiles. There wasn’t any real reason. She just wanted to _talk_  to him.  
  
“You should go,” Malia said, and Kira snapped her head back to her table. “You’re being really obvious. If you want to talk to him, just go. You’re nice, and he’s nice enough. Stop making it hard.”  
  
Kira felt herself begin to smile. “Maybe I will.” She pulled out a sheet from her notebook and scribbled her number on it. “Call me, though, if you want to get together tonight and work on reading.” She put the paper down by _Matilda_ , and grabbed her bag.  
  
She didn’t go for the doors Scott went out of. Instead, she turned to the side exit, where she saw a flick of red hair swing around a corner.  
  
“Lydia!” she called, jogging to catch up. “Lydia, wait!”  
  
Kira stopped short when Lydia turned. Her cheeks were dry, but the tears teetering at the edges of her lashes were pretty obvious before Lydia deliberately blinked them away. “Yes?"  
  
“I got it,” Kira blurted out. “A real one. Made by a houngan in Gambia.” Making sure that there was no one around to see, she carefully opened her bag. The drum she pulled out was not even half a foot tall, made of skin and wood. “My dad said he only collects these kinds of things if they’ve never been used before, but I think it’ll work."  
  
Lydia scrunched her nose at the smell of mould and dust, but carefully took the drum. “Kira, do you know what I could do with this drum?”  
  
Kira swallowed. “Yeah, I do.”  
  
“Do you know why I want this drum?”  
  
Kira looked carefully into Lydia’s eyes. The traces of tears were completely gone, maybe just from sheer force of will. Her gaze was still sharp and shrewd, but there was a soft slackness around her eyes that hinted at a weariness a whole lot more exhausting than a lack of sleep. “I think so.”  
  
Lydia looked down at the instrument cradled in her hands. “Then thank you for giving it to me.”  
  
“Lydia…” Kira took a deep breath. “I know you’re really smart, and I know you know what you’re doing, but please be careful. Voodoo is really scary stuff, even if you’re doing it for a good cause.”  
  
Lydia didn’t look up, just running a finger along the red stitching that covered the side of the drum. For the first time, Kira noticed that one of Lydia’s silver rings was worked into the shape of a thin arrow.  
  
“I know, Kira,” she said softly. “I know."  
  
_________________  
  
Stiles slumped against the bank of lockers while Scott shovelled his books into his bag. It’d been too long since the bell went for any student in their right mind to still be sticking around the halls, and Stiles found the empty echo kind of a relief after the clattering day. He used to _loathe_  silence. When he was a kid, he’d try to convince his dad that his brain was _actually melting_  whenever he was sent to his room with the demand for an hour’s worth of peace. He even resorted to knocking any appendage available – knuckles, heel, head, whatever – into the wall just to have some _noise_.  
  
Now…now, it was sometimes not worth the effort to even care about the noise. Screw bothering to make some. There wasn’t anything particularly _useful_  about the silence, but he’d sometimes just spend hours sitting in it. It was weirdly like the detached state he was in while he was possessed – when a monster shoved its way into his skull and used any appendage available – hands, voice, memories, whatever – to stir up its own brand of noise. He'd there. He'd seen all of it. He'd felt Scott’s blood pour onto his hands, heard the rattle of debris poured into the shrapnel bomb. But it hadn’t mattered to him while it was happening. There had been no rage, no pain, not even boredom. Even when the nogitsune was knocked out and Stiles was given control of his body back, he almost couldn’t remember by that point how to feel about what was going on. He was just… indifferent.  
  
And that’s what it was like now. Oh, he cared now. The blood, the shrapnel – that was something he couldn’t be indifferent to anymore. He would think about it every damn day. He’d _make_  himself think about it every day. He wasn’t ignoring it, not by a long shot. He was just… indifferent to the pain. Like the sleepovers he used to have with Scott, where they’d see how quickly they could destroy five large pizzas and not get killed on their Halo campaign. They’d be in  _so much pain_ , but they wouldn’t tell Mrs. McCall, because she’d _murder_  them. So they just kept playing, their stomachs in agony, until the pain didn’t matter any more.  
  
Being possessed was like a pizza stomachache that pushed against the inside of your ribs and made your head too heavy to move sometimes and left you too crowded on the inside to be full of things like noise.  
  
It was sort of weird, how full he could be of _nothing_. What do you call an absence of substance that still occupied space?  
  
A void.  
  
“I have to back to the library,” he said quietly.  
  
Scott paused, and looked over at him. “To talk to Malia?”  
  
“…Yeah. To talk to Malia."  
  
“Do you want me to come with you?”  
  
“ _Yes_.” Stiles sighed. “But you shouldn’t. I need to talk to her alone. I…she deserves an explanation."  
  
Scott nodded. “Then I’ll wait here.”  
  
Stiles let his head roll to the side enough that he looked at Scott properly. “You don’t have to, you know.”  
  
“I know,” Scott let his free hand drop on to Stiles’s shoulder. “I will anyways.”  
  
Stiles yanked Scott into a hug with a burst of energy that surprised them both. “You’re the best, Scott, you really are.” He gave him one last clap on the shoulder and made himself walk down the hall.  
  
He stood outside the door to the library for _hours_. At least eighteen. Dying of starvation before confronting your interpersonal issues is a totally legitimate course of action.  
  
“C’mon, Stiles,” he muttered. “Gerard Argent tried to kill you. A freakin’ kanima tried to kill you. A horde of Oni tried to kill you. Open the door. You’re not this emotionally stunted. Who are you, Derek Hale?”  
  
He shoved open the library door and winced with what was probably his whole body as the sound of it slamming into the wall echoed _everywhere_. Thankfully, after all the exciting events earlier in the year, their old librarian had left in the summer “to be with her family” and had never come back, so there was no one to hear it except him.  
  
And Malia Tate.  
  
“I was making fun of Kira earlier for having awful survival skills, but I take it back: she’d last at _least_  a week longer than you would.”  
  
“Hey!” Stiles scowled, walking up to her table. “I was _just_  making a list of all the things that have tried to kill me in the last year. I’m _great_  at surviving.”  
  
Malia put down her pen and raised an eyebrow. “I don’t believe you. You’re alone in a room _right_ _now_  with a girl who used to be a feral predator for almost a decade.”  
  
“Are you planning on killing me?” Stiles bit his lip and looked her over. No growling, no glowing eyes, and no visible claws or teeth to rend out his throat. “My survival skills are telling me that I’m currently pretty safe.”  
  
Malia shrugged. “You looked pretty terrified of me when you were in here earlier.”  
  
Stiles was halfway to launching a protest, pointed finger ready to emphasize his _irrefutable_  argument, when he closed his mouth and let his hand drop. He was the _king_  of talking his way out of trouble, and Malia was a girl with a third grade education. But he clenched his teeth against all the words his brain was brewing, and all that came out was a sharp exhale through his nose.  
  
So instead, he pulled out the chair across from Malia and sank into it, shuffling his knees so that they wouldn’t crash into anything. “Yeah,” he said. “I guess I was. I was probably waiting for you to tear my throat out. Because… because it’s what I probably deserve.” He assumed Malia was staring at him. It _felt_  like she was boring a hole through his skull. Stiles didn’t want to look up to make sure. Instead, he kept his eyes focused on the grain of the wooden table. The varnish was chipped, and his fingers were already feeling through the cracks, picking at the edges, prying for weaknesses. He swallowed. “I’m sorry, Malia. For… for everything that happened at Eichen House. It shouldn’t have happened.”  
  
He heard Malia snort. “So you don’t always make the move on people when you walk in on them naked?"  
  
“You were in the _guys’ shower_! And _no_.” His fingers abandoned the wood grain in favour of trying to make a wall for his face to hide behind. “I’ve never even… anyway. I wasn’t thinking straight. After everything that happened with the whole possession thing, I just wasn’t… myself."  
  
“You’re saying that what happened between us was actually between me and a demon?”  
  
“No!” In the tiny gap he allowed himself between his fingers, he could see Malia leaning back in her chair, arms folded across her chest. She didn’t look at that murderous, or _traumatized_ , per se, but she was definitely unimpressed. Stiles sighed. “It was between us. It was me. I was finally back in full control, and I kind of didn’t believe it, you know? I think I needed to prove to myself that I was _me_. And I just wanted… human contact. To make sure I was really human again. I don’t know. But it wasn’t me when I was in a state to be making decisions like that. Not when they affect other people like they did.”  
  
“Stiles.” Malia waited until he dropped his hand, and for a minute, Stiles seriously contemplated just holding it over his face forever. He finally slid it down enough that he could make proper eye contact, but he kept his palm firmly over his mouth in case he suddenly threw up. “Stiles, I get that I’m behind in the whole ‘being a real girl’ thing, but even I know that getting your first kiss in an asylum means we’ve _both_ got too many issues for some fairy tale romance. That’s why I never bothered to bring it up when you were around before.”  
  
Stiles blinked, and his hand fell away from his mouth, leaving it gaping. “You can’t _seriously_  be letting me off the hook that easily. Malia, the fact that you’re aware a mental institution is the _wrong place_  for a first kiss should make you even angrier at me! Why are you letting me get away with this?”  
  
“You’re not the only one who wanted nothing more than human contact.” Malia shrugged. “You don’t even know why my dad dropped me off in Eichen House five minutes after I got home, but trust me when I say that the feelings of some boy who kissed me was the least of my problems.” Stiles watched as Malia leaned forward, letting her eyes flash and curling her lip just enough to show a bit of teeth. “But if it makes you feel better, I _will_  tear your throat out if you try and take advantage of someone like that again.”  
  
His fingers had strayed back to the chipped and exposed wood, but Stiles felt the tiniest release of the awful tightness that had been curling through his stomach since the whole nogitsune thing started. “Good,” he croaked out, twisting his lips into something smile-like. “I’ll hold you to that. Then this was just… a one time thing. No strings attached. Which is good. Fine.”  
  
Malia stared at him, silent, with that ruthless sort of evaluation that all predators seemed to have. It was a look Stiles was _intimately_  familiar with, because there was apparently something about him that _screamed_  ‘prey.’ He’d been on the receiving end of that look from pretty much every supernatural creature that’s cruised through Beacon Hills in the last year. Maybe it was because his brain was mis-wired enough that it’d never figured out that the Flight instinct is a hell of a lot better than the Fight one when you don’t have claws of your own. So her quiet question of “Do you want us to be together?” didn’t really surprise him, but was still as unpleasant as any other fatal attack would be.  
  
“No,” Stiles sighed. It wasn’t that he really needed to _think_  about the answer, but he definitely needed to explain it. “Except that you’re exactly my type. Have you met Lydia Martin? Turns out I have a thing for people who are better than me in pretty much every way. So maybe I would, if I weren’t a person so messed up that I’m terrified of falling asleep. Or maybe if you got to spend more time with enough human beings to decide if you actually like me as a representative of the species. Maybe if we got to know each other in circumstances not revolving around a series of monstrous serial killers, then yeah, I think I really would want to date you.” He shook his head. “But not right now. I shouldn’t be dating _anyone_  right now. So, uh, yeah."  
  
Malia let him ramble off into silence, then closed her notebook. “That’s too bad,” she said, reaching for her pen. “Among coyotes, what we did counts as mating for life.”  
  
“ _WHAT_?” Stiles stood up so fast that his chair toppled backwards, catching his leg and crashing him to the floor. He spent a solid five second watching his _entire life_  flash before his eyes before he realized that he was hearing… laughter? Frowning, Stiles clawed his way back upright enough to see over the edge of the table. Malia was nearly doubled over, tears at the corner of her eyes, trying to gasps in air between her laughs.  
  
“Oh my _god_ , that was a joke.” Stiles let himself slump back to the floor, raising his voice to make sure that she could hear how _not impressed_ he was. “You’re a _menace_. In human society, giving someone an aneurism and a heart attack _at the same time_  is considered pretty much the exact opposite of taking the moral high ground here.”  
  
He heard Malia snort. “And you thought you could survive me.”   
  
After he had caught his breath, he levered himself upright, and made a motion towards leaving, citing something about now needing immediate hospital attention thanks to certain coyote. Malia had allowed the tiniest bit of a smirk to cross her face, and Stiles found himself almost-quasi-smiling in return. Maybe he really could salvage an actual friendship out of this. Maybe things would be okay after all.  
  
As he passed her to head to the door, though, Malia’s hand flicked out to grab his wrist. When he stopped and stared at her, she wasn’t looking at him but at _Matilda_ , rubbing her thumb along the raised lettering on the spine.  
  
“Stiles… I get it. About not knowing what to do with yourself once you get your body back. It’s not like I stopped remembering things once I was a coyote. Just because I couldn’t control myself doesn’t mean I’m not responsible for what happened to my mom and my sister. Being a survivor isn’t meant to be _easy_."  
  
She let go of his wrist, and Stiles was sort of distantly aware that his feet were now carrying him to the door. The chill that her fingertips left seemed to seep up his arm, pushing into his ribs and up against the hot knot aching under his collar bone. He didn’t even see the doors as he opened them and let them shush closed behind him. What he saw was the coach, the solid shaft of an arrow sunk deep into his body. He saw Scott’s face, begging him to stop as he wrapped his fingers around the katana’s handle and _twisted_. He saw Lydia, on her hands and knees in the middle of a gritty and cold hallway, because somewhere above them Scott was rocking Allison’s limp and pale body in his arms.  
  
He was an idiot. Things weren’t okay. Things were never going to be okay, and it was all because of him.  
  
***  
  
By the time Stiles got back to Scott’s locker, Scott was sitting on the hallway floor, playing with his phone. He gave a small smile as Stiles slumped down beside him, but before he could lock his phone, Stile caught a glimpse of Allison’s picture on the screen.  
  
Stiles closed his eyes.  
  
“Dude,” Scott said. “That took way less time than I thought it would. I was expecting to not feel my butt when you came out.”  
  
“I’ll never doubt your unwavering loyalty, buddy,” Stiles said, letting his head fall back against the wall. “We didn’t talk much. I apologized, she threatened me, we kind of became friends, and I tried to forget that I’m a terrible human being.”  
  
“I don’t think a terrible human being would give his best friend his juice box every day for a year just because I thought apples tasted funny and I didn’t want to tell my mom.” Scott nudged him with an elbow. “If anything, you’re just an asshole."  
  
Stiles snorted. “Thanks, Scott."  
  
“So. You and Malia? Did you want there to be a thing?” There wasn’t even an ounce of judgement in Scott’s voice. He was just a solid presence beside Stiles, and the rush of gratitude to the universe as a whole for dropping the wheezing McCall boy into his sandbox all those years ago was enough to make Stiles close his eyes again before he got overwhelmed.  
  
“No. Not really, not with her. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with her. I just…” Stiles sighed. “I always wondered what it’d be like to be with someone, you know? Like, not make out at a party, or have Lydia Martin throw herself at me because I’m having a panic attack, you know? Instead, I was in the basement of an insane asylum with a girl who had been a  _coyote_  since she was eight while a Japanese demon hung out in my head. That’s the kind of romance you see on late-night tabloid talk shows.” He dragged the palm of his hand down his face. He'd really wanted to do the celibacy-for-life things from now on, if it weren’t for the fact that  _a few months ago,_  that was actually a thing that could have gotten him literally murdered.  
  
“It’s okay to wait, you know,” Scott said, quietly turning his phone in his hands. “Until it feels right. People shouldn’t be in a relationship if they’re not, like, totally ready. It wouldn’t be fair to the other person."  
  
Stiles watched the hallway light reflect off Scott’s phone. It wasn’t actually bad advice, and while it wasn’t surprising, it was good to know that Stiles had at least one person who wouldn’t judge if he stayed a twitchy virgin forever. The kind of twitchy virgin who really wanted whine to his best friend about his problems like they were the only ones that mattered. But this was Scott. And Scott deserved better than a self-absorbed best friend.  
  
So he said, “You’re doing that thing again, dude. You know, that thing where you’re too good of a human being and you try to help everyone around you instead of letting the world know that you’re not okay.”  
  
Now Scott was looking at the reflection on his phone. “I’m… not _not_  okay?”  
  
“Yeah? You wanna talk about what that desk did today to get you so mad, then? Looked at you funny? Called your mom names?”  
  
Stiles missed Scott’s face. Like, not his _face_ , because it’s still the same face that it’s always been. But Stiles missed what used to be Scott’s default face, the one that was always right on the verge of grinning at the stupid things that just tumbled out of Stile’s mouth. It was almost like Scott had to think about that face now before it really came back. Now, Stiles would just say stupid things and Scott’s mouth would begin to twitch upward before it just got… tired, and settled in a downward direction instead.  
  
“I just….” Scott sighed, and those ridiculously sincere eyes started drifting in the same direction as his mouth. “I just always feel like when I used to have asthma, now. Like I can’t really breathe in and when I do, everything _hurts_. And it’s weird, because I’m a wolf now – I’m an _alpha_  – so I shouldn’t feel like this. But I can’t _stop_  feeling like this, and I can’t _fix_  it, and it just makes me really _mad_.”  
  
Stiles’ head snapped around at the sharp crack that echoed through the hall. The screen on Scott’s phone was shattered, a sharp werewolf claw digging past the glass and into the electronics below.  
  
“Whoa! Buddy! Scott, calm down.” Stiles put a careful hand on Scott’s shoulder and licked his lips at the red eyes that lifted to meet his. “I know you’re angry, Scott, and you have every right to be. But you’ve gotta stop the mindless destruction, you’ve gotta control it. Besides, you don’t wanna stress out your mom by telling her that you need _another_  new phone. Right?”  
  
Carefully, as if he couldn’t quite register the action, Scott’s grip relaxed on his phone, and the dead mobile slipped into his lap. “I keep thinking about what Lydia’s mom said,” Scott murmured.  
  
“Yeah, that was weird, right?” Stiles frowned. “Like that was some seriously not-normal teacher behaviour that she was pulling. Do you think Kira was on to something with the Banshee thing being genetic?"  
  
“She kept saying that more people would die in this town,” Scott said. “And that there’s nothing I could do about it. What if that’s true?”  
  
Stiles sighed and dropped his hand on Scott’s knee. “Maybe you can’t, not by yourself. Saving people is exhausting work.” Stiles tried to give the kind of smile that Scott would give, full of sincerity and belief. It actually wasn’t so hard. Scott was the kind of guy who was easy to believe in. “But that’s why you have a pack.”  
  
The fangs faded away, and the smile that tugged at the corner of Scott’s mouth this time wasn’t exactly from his greatest hits, but it was definitely a point in the right direction. “This from the guy who wanted to single-handedly take over Europe. You told me that it wouldn’t count if you had help."  
  
Stiles snorted. “Yeah, well, I think we can establish that I should be no one’s role model for a healthy relationship.” Clearly, sincerity doesn’t work for Stiles the way it does for Scott. Back to the old hat of cynicism, then. He elbowed his best friend. “Just because I’m messed up doesn’t mean you should follow in my footsteps, oh Fearless Leader. We’re all here for you. Don’t… shut us out because of what happened with Allison. Like I’m not saying you should wake up tomorrow and forget about everything about Allison. You should never do that.” Stiles paused. “But some of us, like Kira, are a little lost without you."  
  
“What, why? Is she okay?” Scott asked, frowning.  
  
Scott also deserved better than a shamelessly manipulative best friend, but it’s not like anyone expected Stiles to be perfect.  
  
Stiles shrugged, _totally_  nonchalant. “She’s fine, it’s all right. It’s just… you know. You were one of her closest friends when she first got here. And there was that whole mom’s-a-thousand-year-old-supernatural-creature thing she’s dealing with. Lydia and I don’t really know her well enough to help with her intro to the Creature Feature life, and I think she thinks the whole thing isn’t really something you wanna talk about right now.”  
  
Scott kept frowning. “I want to talk to her! I wasn’t avoiding her! I was just… I just don’t want the same thing to happen to her that…”  
  
Stiles elbowed him again, but more… gently, this time. “I know, buddy. I know. But Kira’s pretty resilient. Have you seen her with a sword? And I think she gets that you shouldn’t be anything more until you’re totally ready. Just let her know that she’d still got a friend to talk to.”  
  
“Yeah,” Scott said, nodding like it was the best idea he’d ever heard. Sincere as Scott McCall was, dubious he was not. “I’m picking her up tomorrow. Maybe I can talk to her then!”  
  
“You do exactly that, buddy,” Stiles said, letting a smile tug at the corner of his own lips. He probably wasn’t a good person for taking advantage of Scott’s ingrained need to take care of people, but whatever. Kira was almost as good of a person as Scott was, and she could make him happy with exactly the kind of sincerity that was just _never_  gonna happen in his friendship with Stiles. And after everything, Scott deserved a chance at being happy.  
  
Stiles licked his lips and let his gaze drop to the cracked phone.  
  
Scott, bless his heart, had taken the idea that everyone needed a bit of cheering up and was running with it. “Maybe next time,” he was saying, "we can get the pack together and just… watch movies together or something!"  
  
“And maybe next time you want to rip a hole through something, you can aim your punches this way,” Stiles murmured, closing his eyes. They snapped right open again as he realized that he _hadn’t_  bitten his words back and he almost cursed at letting his vigilance slip.  
  
Scott was staring at him, frowning, because he was a _werewolf_ , and of _course_  he heard all of the stupid things Stiles let fall out of his mouth. “Sorry,” Stiles sighed. “Joking. I was joking."  
  
He felt Scott’s hands on both of his shoulders, and let himself be awkwardly turned so that he was facing Scott even while he was still sitting. “I would never do that, Stiles,” Scott said, ducking his head to catch Stiles’ eyes whenever he tried to slide them away. “You know that, and you should never want me to."  
  
“No?” Stiles asked. “Never even considered it? A monster in _my_  body shot our coach with an arrow. Made you _feel a person die_  because of a bomb in a police station. Killed… killed Allison.”  
  
“Yeah, Stiles,” Scott said quietly. “A _monster_  did that. Not you. I _know_  you’d never do that. Which is why I’d never hurt you, Stiles. _Never_."  
  
“Yeah, well, _someone’s_  at fault, and the blame has to go somewhere.”  
  
“I’m never going to hurt you for what happened, Stiles.”  
  
Stiles closed his eyes. “And that’s why I constantly worry about you, buddy. You’re just too good of a person."  
  
_________________  
  
  
  
Everyone complained that it was too cold for California, but she didn’t really mind. There was still enough evening sun that she could feel it on her skin when she went for a walk, and there was less litter for her to stumble on now that the worst offenders just stayed inside.  
  
Beside her, Balto stopped with a soft tug to let her know that the light they were at was red. She scratched him on his favourite spot on the shoulder, just behind the harness, and he thumped his tail at a job well done.  
  
“Oh, I know, Old Man, I know. There isn’t a single canine in the world as wonderful as you are. But I’m only telling you once today. You’re vain enough as it is.”  
  
Balto whuffed modestly and led her along once the crosswalk light chirped its permission.  
  
“Don’t you pretend. I know you. You’re trying to get steak out of this, aren’t you?”  
  
Hell, it was a lovely day. She was feeling generous. Maybe she will give Balto a bit of steak later. He didn’t need to know that, though.  
  
“Did I tell you, by the way, about that business with Mr. Chauhan’s accountant? Everyone said that they never saw it coming, but _I_  think it was obvious. _No one_  takes that long to file their taxes if all they have is one property and a salary job. Oh, and the Mehelani girl is coming back to town. All those tech companies in Washington have been wooing here since the minute she graduated. I bet she’s planning on snagging that brother of hers, who’s turning out just like – “  
  
She frowned. Balto had stopped, and was making a strange rumbling growl that she’d never heard before. There were no footsteps that she could hear, but there was the faintest scrape of something on the pavement. Claws?  
  
“Hello? Forgive Balto, I think you startled him.” She frowned. The lack of talking made sense, but Balto was trained to interact with most animals. He would never freak out like this over another dog, or a raccoon.  
  
For the first time in a long time, she suddenly craved a little less solitude on her walks.  
  
Balto was growling louder, his incessant barking giving way to growling yips.  
  
“Balto? Old Man, are we in danger? Balto?”  
  
She pressed her lips together.   _Don’t panic. Just don’t. You’re a grown woman. It’s just an animal. It’ll go away, and you will go home to your jazz records and your fresh-baked bread. You’ll give Balto his steak and you’ll sleep like a baby tonight._  
  
She felt Balto’s sudden jerk against her finger tips, and when he let out an awful, horrible yelp of pain, she let herself scream with him. She screamed Balto’s name, or maybe for help, or probably just one of those wordless screeches that you only ever hear out of girls in horror movies. Balto slumped over onto her feet, stiff and heavy and way too quiet. She heard the dry scrape of something moving against the jeans on her legs.  
  
She yanked herself away from the scrape, but stumbled over the heavy weight of Balto’s hind quarters. She hadn’t fallen over like this since she was ten. The shock of pain that hit her elbow as it cracked into the pavement was distracting enough that she nearly didn’t register the impact on her head as it followed. The last thought that she had as the sounds of the world faded out around her was that her mother, if she were still alive, would never have let her hear the end of this.  
  
_________________  
  
On most days, Scott actually really enjoyed the perks of being a werewolf. It had taken a while to grow on him, between all the people and things trying to kill him and the _awful_  smells he had to deal with in the locker rooms after lacrosse practice. But the fact that he’d never get sick again was pretty great. And he was _awesome_  at video games now that his reflexes were supernaturally enhanced.  
  
Being an Alpha was even better. _Knowing_  that he was surrounded by his friends no matter what sometimes made him feel like he could take on anything in the world. And Stiles told him at one point that Scott didn’t have to listen to anyone _again_  if he didn’t want to. It was like he was unstoppable.  
  
But his mom was still his mom. And she had to deal with all the terrible things that went on in Beacon Hills without any of the perks of being a werewolf. He’d be willing to do a lot for her, even if he wasn’t happy about it. He had made it _really_  clear that he wasn’t happy about it. But all she wanted was “One dinner. That’s it. Show him that you can be civil and sit down for one meal."  
  
Which he totally did. He definitely sat down and was super civil when he did it. Things just didn’t… stay that way.  
  
“What makes you think you can even come here like you deserve any answers? You have no right to know anything about my life!”  
  
“I’m your father, and a federal agent, and that gives me all the right I need if your life is at risk!”  
  
“I can take care of myself just fine!” Scott was standing, hands planted by his plate, glaring at the man that he had the stupid luck to be sharing genes with. “I’m not letting you pretend that I need your help just because you suddenly grew a conscience!”  
  
In Scott’s defence, _he_  wasn't the one who started the whole standing and shouting thing. It was his “dad” who had knocked over his glass and now there was a chip in it and it was from mom’s favourite set and she only brought it out for the important meals and the fact Rafe McCall didn’t _know_  that just made Scott so _mad_.  
  
And so he didn’t even care that Agent McCall was trying to use the FBI voice and square his shoulders to look more imposing. Because that stupid trick had worked when Scott was a kid, but now he’d seen things – he’d  _been_ things – that would make FBI agents _cry_  and a scary voice wasn’t going to cut it anymore. What he cared about was the fact that his mom was doing that frown she did when she was trying not to be obvious about wanting to frown. She was flicking her gaze between Scott and Agent McCall while she cradled her own glass like she could protect it from the pending fallout.  
  
Scott took a slow breath through his nose and felt it add to the fury under his ribs. He wasn’t going to wolf out. That wasn’t even going to be a problem. He could feel his control right down to the core of his bones, coiled and waiting to be released on command, not a second sooner. The _problem_  was the man six inches from his face, ranting about the need for a protection in a town he hadn’t set foot in for years, without a clue what he was really going up against.  
  
Scott let his lips draw back as Agent McCall finished whatever tirade he was on. He didn’t show any fangs, and his eyes didn’t glow, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t display exactly how much of Alpha he still was. He could do it with just a tilt of the head now, just in the way he held his shoulders. There really was some great perks. “Sorry, did you say anything important?"  
  
Agent McCall’s fist slammed into the table. “Don’t you _dare_  address –"  
  
“All right, boys, that is _ENOUGH_.”  
  
Agent’s McCall’s voice died so quickly that Scott would be pleased, if it weren’t for the fact that he was in just as much trouble. They both turned to face his mom, who had given in, not even bothering to hide her frown now.  
  
“Scott,” she said, “Am I wrong in thinking that you have better control over yourself than this?”  
  
Scott swallowed. He knew exactly what she was actually asking. He just shook his head softly and looked her right in the eye, trying to show her that there was no chance of the wolf coming out even as the rest of his body refused to give an inch of ground in its silent standoff against Agent McCall.  
  
His mom sighed. “Then there’s _no_  reason for you to act like this. I did _not_  raise you to be this rude to our guests during dinner.”  
  
“But he –“  
  
“I don’t care if you didn’t start it, Scott.”  
  
“I didn’t –“  
  
“Yes you did, Rafe. Now shut up. I’ll get to you in a minute.”  
  
Scott watched his mom stand up and carefully collect the glasses, depositing them by the sink before coming back around the table to put a hand on his arm. “Scott, go to your room. We can talk later.” He knew she was watching him as he glared at his father, and he heard her sigh. “Please?”  
  
He dragged his eyes away from Agent McCall. He could still feel that hot ball of rage in his chest, licking up into his throat and down along his arms, looking for any outlet. He sucked in a breath, gave a tight nod, turning towards his room. Once he got into the hallway, the heat of his anger became sharper in its push to go _somewhere_ , burning down through his wrists and up behind his ears. _He_  shouldn’t be the one leaving. He should be back there, protecting his mom. She asked him to go, but the feeling of being so _useless_  just made him want to ––  
  
“And if there is so much as a _scratch_  anywhere in this house when I come get you, so help me, I will ground you for a _month_!"  
  
Scott sighed, relaxing the fists he didn’t even know he had made. His mom wanted him to go away to cool off. He should go to his room, close the door, and think about anything in the universe other than Beacon Hills, the last year, and the man in his kitchen.  
  
He went to his room, but he left the door open a crack. And if he ended up focusing on the conversation that drifted in from the other room, well. Scott was never great at taking his own advice.  
  
“–– can’t do that, Melissa! There’s something going on in this town, and I need to find out what it is!”  
  
“And you really think the best way of doing that is interrogating your son like he’s at the top of the FBI’s Most Wanted list?”  
  
“What happened to you in the hospital was _impossible_. And those masked smoke monsters attacking everyone aren’t like any gang or terrorist group I’ve ever seen. They shouldn’t even _be_  in a small town like this!”  
  
Scott frowned. What happened to his mom in the hospital?  
  
“So you think Scott has something to do with all of this?” his mom asked.  
  
“No, but if there’s anything going on, that damned Stilinski kid is sure to be mixed up in it, and if he drags Scott into this, a lot of people are going to get hurt, including both of you!"  
  
His mom snorted. “If you honestly think there’s anything you can do to make Scott give you _anything_  on Stiles, you’ve lost your touch.”  
  
Scott could hear the scrape of his father’s nails as he dragged them through his hair. “Why aren’t you taking this seriously?"  
  
“I’m not taking it seriously because this was supposed to be a civil meal, and you came here to turn it into the Spanish Inquisition. What are you going to do the next time you see Scott? Ask to sit in on his lacrosse game and waterboard him for information?"  
  
“I’d do whatever it takes!” Agent’s McCall’s yell was loud enough that Scott would have been able to hear it perfectly fine without any enhanced hearing.  
  
Scott closed his eyes. _I can’t let myself become like him_. The thought was like a cold knife through that burning pit of anger inside of him. It didn’t really _stop_  anything, but it was enough to make him pause. It was his father’s inability to control his anger that had led to him being gone in the first place. Scott couldn’t afford to do that. He _needed_  to be here, for the people he cared about, for _everyone_  in Beacon Hills. So if he couldn’t stop the anger, he needed to control it. Just like he controlled his wolf.  
  
“Well,” his mom said. “It’s clear what your priorities are, and that you’re here as an FBI agent and not as a father wanting to have dinner with his son. And I think that, as an FBI agent, you’ve overstayed your welcome.”  
  
Scott listened to the footsteps crossing the kitchen, towards the door. They paused. “Melissa,” Agent McCall said softly. “I may be here as an FBI agent, but when it comes to who I’m protecting, Scott is my priority. _You_  are my priority.”  
  
Scott could hear the thump of his mom’s hand patting him on the shoulder. “Yeah, well, you don’t get to make us a priority just when you want to swoop in and be a hero. Besides, we’ve gotten very good at protecting ourselves. Goodbye, Rafe.”  
  
After the door had clicked shut, his mom heaved a breath, and said, “Scott? Are you cooled down enough to come talk?”  
  
He took a deep breath of his own, and levered himself up off of the bed, hanging his head as he walked back into the kitchen.  
  
“Mom, I’m really sorry about all the shouting, and I’m really sorry about your glass –“  
  
His mom held up a hand and smiled. “It’s fine. You yelling at him saved me from yelling at him and I got to do the ice-cool sassy thing to get him out of my house, which is _always_  satisfying with him. I’m serious, though, about never doing that to any of our other guests, _ever._ ”  
  
Scott looked at his mom and the way she held herself, unfazed by the agent ex-husbands and werewolves and supernatural sons that life threw her way. He was suddenly overwhelmed with so much _love_  for her that the wide smile had slid itself onto his face before he even noticed it was there. “I never would, I promise. And you were pretty great, getting him out of the house. You were both sassy and… icy."  
  
“What did I tell you about eavesdropping?” His mom tried to look stern, but her lips kept tugging up into a smile to match his own.  
  
“Can’t help it. These ears catch _everything_.”  
  
She gave a soft sigh, stepping up to Scott and gently picking up his hands in hers. “So, do you want to talk about what this is really about? Because I won’t argue about how infuriating that man is, but I feel like something else is going on.”  
  
Scott thought about it, how there was this hot mass of anger in him that never seemed to go away, how hanging out with Stiles and everyone felt like _work_  now, how his emotions just felt more _intense_  now but just wouldn’t stop spinning back to that baseline of helplessness that he’s felt since… since everything. He wanted to tell her, just sit down and pour everything out. She’d be great about it. She’d listen, and hug him, and give him some sort of advice. But every time he thought of talking to her, he thought of the last conversation they had, where she had asked him to give Agent McCall a chance with dinner, asked him to really try to be civil, seemed so… hopeful.  
  
“Mom, are you gonna get back together with him?” Scott kind of felt like he was a little kid again, the first time his mom dropped him off at preschool and he watched her drive away. “Because you shouldn’t. I don’t want you to think that I never want you to date, and I want you to be happy, but he won’t make you happy. He _won’t_.”  
  
His mom smiled softly and put her hand on his cheek. “Sweetie, I really appreciate that you’re so concerned for me, but I need to make this clear: I think you missed something important in the last year of werewolves and kidnappings.” She waited until he was staring at her in confusion before she let her smile break out into a full grin. “Scott, I am _amazing_  at self-preservation. I would _never_  get back together with your dad, even if I were somehow missing my legs and he promised me all of the piratey wooden pegs in the universe. He’s only around to make sure that I’m not being a terrible parent and allowing you to be in a cult or something.” Her gaze flicked down as she shifted to smooth out the wrinkles in his shirt. “He misses you, and I think he wants to see if you’d like to be with him now that you’ve spent so much time with me. And you’re your own person. I can’t stand in the way of you making that decision even if I don’t want to let you go."  
  
Scott felt the feeling of relief seep through him so completely that for the first time, he couldn’t really sense the anger that had been burning in him for weeks. He didn’t even bother to hide his own grin as he yanked his mom into a hug. “You’re an _awesome_  parent, Mom. And I’ll _never_  get sick of spending time with you. Dad’s an idiot if he thinks he can convince me to leave you.”  
  
“Will you still say that after I make you do the dishes?”  
  
Scott looked over his mom’s shoulder to the overflowing sink and grimaced. “I’m saying that I’m willing to do the dishes because I love you?”  
  
His mom smelled happy. Happy, and safe, and at peace. Scott held her a bit tighter, tried to inhale her scent and use it to overwrite the writhing mass of _everything_  inside of him. It wouldn’t go quietly though, pushing back with a lick of anger that curled through him as Mrs. Martin’s words from this afternoon came back to him. _Beacon Hills will always be haunted by the legacy of death_.  
  
Not if Scott could stop it. And he would. He would do whatever it takes.  
  
_________________  
  
When she was in the fourth grade, Lydia Martin’s teacher had carefully written in her report card that she was “too controlling,” like it was a bad thing. At the time, Lydia had simply wanted to take over the world, and have people obey her every order. She had learned later to be more subtle about things: direct conversations with a well-placed word, direct where the boys stared with the perfect shade of lipstick, direct the attention of her teachers with the strategic use of irrefutable but unremarkable intelligence.  
  
There were days, though, when it felt like her carefully constructed world of untouchable academic and social superiority was falling down around her here, when there was nothing around her but vague hints of death and murderous monsters, that the effects of her lipstick were a lot less satisfying. On those days, it was nice knowing that there were some things left in the world that she could be a bit more overt in commanding.  
  
Like several tons of motorized metal.  
  
Jackson had laughed at her when she demanded he teach her how to drive his Porche. Said she’d ruin the clutch because she wouldn’t put enough force into shifting the gears for fear of ruining her nails.  
  
Lydia shifted seamlessly into fifth gear, without even a ghost of a stutter from the transmission. She had shot past the laughable low speed limit sign nearly a mile ago, because no one ever travelled this road in the evenings. This was a road that people only crowded on sunny Saturday mornings, when they wanted to leave a few flowers and feel good about not forgetting their grandmothers. The only other time this road had anyone on it was after a funeral procession, and Lydia was in possession of the joyous skill that guaranteed her knowledge of all pending funerals in Beacon Hills.  
  
She drummed her nails on the steering wheel, tapping to that same _incessant_  ticking that’s plagued her all day. Her eyes kept flicking to her bag in the passenger seat, completely concealing the dark wooden drum hidden inside of it. She had had no intention of using it so soon. But she could still hear her mom’s voice in her head from this afternoon, and she needed… _something_ , anything, to confirm that she could _do_  this, find some foundation of control over the shambles that were her Banshee powers.  
  
 _“Mom, when was the last time you talked to her?”_  
  
 _“Oh, I don’t know. It feels like ages. We did have a great catch-up this summer on her birthday. She kept complaining about this boy she didn’t like coming back to town.”_  
  
She refused to believe in cosmic irony, but she resented the fact that her chase after control in her personal universe meant her being distracted enough to miss the police cruiser until it turned on its lights.  
  
Lydia pressed her lips together as she pulled over, and checked herself in the mirror. At least there were some problems still left that her lipstick could handle. She turned to the gentle tap on the glass.  
  
And sighed. “…Sheriff,” she said, after she rolled down the window.  
  
“Lydia.” The Sheriff’s eyes were kinder than his son’s, but the unimpressed raise of his eyebrow was a look she was _very_  familiar with. “I know you’re a smart girl, so I’m sure you were able to read how high that number on your speedometer is.”  
  
Something about his tone made her desperately want to hang her head, mumble an apology, and take her ticket without a word. Instead, she raised her own eyebrow in return and looked the Sheriff right in the eye. “I wouldn’t have hit anyone. You know that there’s no one on this road on a Friday evening.”  
  
She watched as he lifted his head and gazed down the road.  The Beacon Hills Cemetery wouldn’t be visible until after the corner, but even the trees lining the road to it seemed too still, silent and reverent. “Yeah, you’re right,” the Sheriff said quietly. “But that’s still no excuse to rush there. Everything will still be waiting for you if you drive the speed limit.”  
  
Lydia looked away. She hated that she could see it on him, that awful type of empathy that only happened between people who know about the roads to cemeteries. It hung around his shoulders like a uniform, an extra layer to the austerity of his Sheriff’s badge. “I’ll slow down,” she murmured.  
  
The Sheriff patted the roof of her car. “Just be careful, okay? There’s no one else out there at this time of night, and we got a report of another animal attack this afternoon.”  
  
Lydia whipped her head around to stare at the Sheriff. “What? When?"  
  
The hand he dragged down his face was so much like Stiles’s that Lydia nearly frowned. “It was called in at about 1:45pm. Two truckers coming in from up north. Gas station attendant found the bodies.”  
  
Lydia blinked, swallowed. “I… I didn’t know."  
  
“Maybe it’s a good thing that you don’t have to hold yourself responsible for foreseeing every death in this town. Sometimes animal attacks just happen.” the Sheriff grimaced. “At least, I hope this is just an animal attack. Please tell this doesn’t have anything to do with all the crazy stuff you kids are mixed up in.”  
  
Lydia shook her head distractedly, her eyes flicking to the side as she processed the information. “No. No, we weren’t anywhere near that. I… I was in Biology class at the time.”  
  
The Sheriff nodded. “Good. That’s exactly what I want to hear. I’m going to give you a pass on the ticket this time, because I’m sure I owe you for keeping an eye on my son at some point, but you better start slowing down. I don’t ever want to bring the news to your mother that something happened to you.”  
  
Lydia swallowed as she listen to his boots crunch away on the gravel. If she closed her eyes, she could see her mom, sitting in the living room not even twenty minutes ago with that vacant gaze that Lydia _loathed_.  
  
 _Her mom had sighed. “I know. Claudia’s been bugging me about that for years.”_  
  
 _Lydia had already been on her way out the door when she paused, frowning. “Claudia who?” she asked carefully._  
  
“Sheriff!” Lydia had clicked out of her seatbelt and flung open her door before she had even thought through her actions. It wasn’t until she found herself standing by the side of the road, her car dinging at the keys left in the ignition, that she had to rush through her logic for doing this.  
  
“Lydia?” John Stilinski was halfway to his cruiser, but had turned back to look at her. The creases around his eyes had deepened as he scanned her with the same eyes he used to examine a crime scene. “Lydia, is something wrong?"  
  
“Sheriff, do you know my mother?” Lydia couldn’t even explain why she was breathless. This was something she had done dozens of times. She would create a theory, based on her observations, and before she would voice her conclusions, she’d glean the opinion of a third party to see where they stood. She’d done it with everything from flirtation techniques to the use of molotov cocktails on deranged werewolves. But this was different. If she could confirm this, it would change everything. It’d give her the key to getting the one thing she wanted more than anything in the world.  
  
“I’m the Sheriff, Lydia. I know everyone in this town.” She watched as he sighed. “But yeah, I do. We haven’t really talked in a while, but she… she and Stiles’s mother were really close.”  
  
Lydia swallowed, because she knew what this would do. Theories can’t be presented without evidence, and not all evidence is good evidence. But she needed to know. So she stopped herself from pressing her lips together and said, “Do you think my mom could be a banshee, like me?"  
  
“Aw, hell, Lydia,” the Sheriff rubbed the back of his neck. “Up until a few months ago, I wasn’t even aware that _you_  could be a banshee. Why are you asking me?"  
  
“Because…” Lydia took a breath. “Because for years, my mom has had periods where she’s lacked… lucidity.” The Sheriff frowned, but nodded. So it wasn’t as well-kept of a secret as the Martin family had hoped. She swallowed. “And in one of her periods today, she told me that she still has conversations with Claudia.”  
  
 _“Oh, you know Claudia. You call her Mrs. S! You’d always make her do your hair in ribbons when she and Sheriff would come for dinner.”_  
  
 _Lydia swallowed. “Mom, when was the last time you talked to her?”_  
  
The wave of nausea that surged up through Lydia’s stomach at the sight of the Sheriff’s face nearly made her throw up on the spot.  
  
“Lydia, are you sure? This… God, this is not something you state unless you’re absolutely damn certain.”  
  
 _Lydia had fought to keep her breathing calm. The only Claudia that had anything to do with the Sheriff had been dead since 2004. And six months ago, if Lydia had found out her mom was having conversations with her, she would have dismissed the whole situation with so much scorn that it would have been palpable. Now, however, even the hint that this conversation was possible lay before her like a lifeline. “So how do you and Claudia find the time to talk to each other?”_  
  
 _But when her mom’s eyes flicked back to her this time, they were sharp and focused, the nostalgic smile replaced by a raised eyebrow. “Claudia who?” she asked._  
  
Lydia closed her eyes. “I’m not certain. I didn’t even suspect until this afternoon, when my mom nearly had an episode in my Biology class. But I needed to know if…if you had ever caught anything that I had missed. Because if this is true, if this is genetic, then I can find someone to teach me. Maybe not my mom, but _someone_. And I can start preventing deaths instead of just screaming over the bodies.”  
  
The Sheriff didn’t ask about the conversations her mom would have had with his dead wife, like she thought he would. Maybe he couldn’t. Instead he let his shoulders slump, and he said “I don’t know, Lydia. I honestly don’t. I’m the wrong man to ask about this. But if you’re right, if you can find someone who could teach you, I think you have the responsibility to find out. Which is a terrible thing to say to a teenaged girl who’s been through more than any teenager ever should. But if it can help save a single life, then you need to try. And if you’re looking for your family history, you don’t need to turn to just your mother. This is a damn small town. I don’t even wanna know what the state of the gossip mills in Beacon Hills is right now, but I guarantee _someone_  is going to be willing to spill the dirt on the Martin family. Try Ms. Edgesperger. Dollars to donuts that lady can tell you your family tree to the town’s inception."  
  
“I…I’ll ask her.” Lydia swallowed. “Thank you. I…I should let you get back to your patrol.” She straightened her shoulders and moved back towards her dinging car.  
  
“Lydia,” the Sheriff said. When she turned back to look at him, he said, “be careful. Be really careful. If there’s a single one of you brave enough and smart enough to save everyone’s lives, it’s you. But don’t forget that you’re putting your life on the line, too. And there’s a group of really good kids who wouldn’t be able to bear losing you, too."  
  
Lydia’s gaze was unfocused as she dropped herself back into her car, skipping past the bag in the passenger seat to the pink paper flower that hung from her rearview mirror. She checked her lipstick again, and slowly raised her finger tips to her cheek. She hadn’t even noticed how wet they were, hadn’t felt the tears streaming from her eyes.  
  
She tried to sigh, but her breathing hitched, and it was if that hiccoughing gasp was it, the very last straw breaking the back of Lydia’s control. Her next breath choked out in a sob, and she was suddenly crying, sniffling and heaving through every inhale she could drag in. She clung to the steering wheel so tightly that the tendons in her wrist began to ache, and she bawled in a way that she had refused to let herself do since she was seven.  
  
She cried for Allison, for the life that shouldn’t be gone and the death that couldn’t be stopped. She cried for the empty passenger seat beside her, that should have been filled with laughter about cute boys. She cried for Sheriff Stilinski, who looked like he still mourned his own empty passenger seat, even after all these years. And she cried for herself, for the fact that she couldn’t _fix_  this, couldn’t prevent it, and for the fact that she _can’t pull herself together_  enough to stop it from happening again in the future.  
  
When her sobs died down, and Lydia could take a steady, deep breath without a single stutter, she dug up a water bottle she had on the back seat and gulped down the entire thing. Then she checked the mirror, fixed her mascara, and raised her chin.  
  
“There,” she said briskly. “Now it’s out of your system. And that’s the last break you get until you solve this. No one else is going to figure this out for you. So take your highly refined IQ and put it to work. Because _you_  are Lydia Martin, and I _refuse_  to let you be remembered as the Banshee who only found the bodies after they were dead."  
  
She drove the rest of the way to the cemetery just under the speed limit. She parked, pulled out everything she needed from the car, and flicked her hair over her shoulders. That stupid, _incessant_  ticking was quieter here, but that was because everything else was drowning it out – a steady murmur of whispers and confessions curling up from around the cold headstones and streaming past her ears. She marched right past, refusing to get sucked into their names and dates and epitaphs, only slowing her stride when she reached a row of fresher plots. Here she paused, as she always did, to read over the handful of words carved into the grey marble:  
  
 **ALLISON ARGENT**  
Daughter ~ Friend ~ Protector  
Jamais Oublié  
  
Lydia crouched, placing her flowers beside the ones already there. Gerber daisies, obviously from Scott. Allison had told him they were her favourite after he left some in her locker once, and he’s never gotten her any other kind since. Chrysanthemums and carnations, chosen for their longevity, still lovely-looking even after days by a gravestone – Stiles. Lilies, funeral flowers, signs of respect and sympathy for those lost, and the same as those left at every Hale grave – Derek’s. And an old bouquet that Lydia had brought on her last visit: gladiolas, Allison’s actual favourite. There were sometimes more, depending on the day she came, but those four bouquets were always there.  
  
No murmurs ever rose from Allison’s gravestone, no matter how hard Lydia always strained. On most days, Lydia would simply talk into the silence, pretend that she was actually holding a conversation. Today, however, just the possibility that there could be a response filled her with the resolve to make sure that she _got_  one, this time. So before she even said a word, she opened her bag, and pulled out the only two things in it: the voodoo shaman’s drum, and a silver-tipped arrow, the very last thing crafted by Allison’s hands. The drum she placed at the very foot of the grave’s still-fresh dirt, carefully centered. The arrow she hung on to, tapping the head against her thumb to the same _tick tick tick_  rhythm that ran as an undercurrent to everything she heard today.  
  
“Allison,” Lydia murmured. “Allison, it’s me. I haven’t been able to hear you before, but I’m closer now. I’m keeping my promise to you. Allison, I’m going to bring you back."  
  
She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and tapped the taut skin of the drum with the tip of the arrow.  
  
 _________________  
  
Stiles lay in his bed, staring at the morning sun drifting in over his sheets. He’d woken up a while ago, twitching into awareness, and had stayed slumped on his mattress, dazedly trying to piece together the edge between reality and whatever abomination his subconscious had cooked up. He couldn’t decide which was better: this sluggish, leaden haul back to consciousness, or the mornings where he rocketed upright, heart pummelling through his ribs and lungs dragging in air like they had forgotten how. At least when _those_  mornings happened, he knew for sure he was awake. He was also a lot more productive, taking the energy stuttering through his nerve endings and tearing right through whatever leftover homework was lying around.  
  
Today, he just wanted to stay in bed. Not to go back to sleep. He was good on sleep. But just… not move, not face his horrifically monster-filled life, and not bother with the stupid charade where he pretended like he could handle it.  
  
But his dad was already knocking on his door, so that option was out.  
  
“Son?” Stiles flopped his head over in the direction of the doorway. His dad was already in full uniform, holding a coffee cup from the little place by the police station. “You up?"  
  
“Hey,” Stiles said. He flapped his fingers vaguely in the direction of the coffee cup. “I thought your shift started later. Isn’t it too early for you to have been to the station already?”  
  
“There was another animal attack called in early this morning,” his dad sighed. “Like the two truckers I was telling you about last night. A jogger found Ms. Edgesperger when he was out on his run.”  
  
Stiles frowned, hauling himself up enough that he can rest on his elbows. Ms. Edgesperger was a staple in the town’s social network. She knew _everyone_. And for a lady who was pretty vocal about her dislike of the youth, she was surprisingly tolerant of a little kid with ADHD who got under her feet and constantly demanded to pet her dog. “Do you know what attacked her?"  
  
“We’re still trying to figure that out. She’s alive, but in a coma, and she has some weird injuries on her leg that Melissa’s looking into.” His dad shook his head. “Her guide dog didn’t make it, though.”  
  
“Aw man, Balto?” Stiles’s fingers were skimming all over his head: running through his hair, rubbing at his eyes, catching his lips on their way down. “I really liked him.” He scanned his dad’s face. “Are you _sure_  that this is just an animal attack, and not, like, an _animal_  attack? I could get a hold of Scott…”  
  
His dad shook his head again. “There’s nothing suspicious as of yet. I’m not saying that’s a no, but there’s nothing we can look into until more evidence comes in. Plus, I ran into Lydia, and she said she didn't catch anything on that Banshee-sonar-whatsit she has."  
  
Oh yeah, Lydia. With a grunt, Stiles flopped himself over onto his stomach to slap around for his phone. He nearly knocked it off the bedside table in the process, but when he pulled up to his face, there were no notifications. He snorted. “When you ran into her, did you tell her that if she wants her incredibly generous friend to do a super-intense background check on her family tree, she needs to actually _send_  the family tree to said friend in a timely fashion?"  
  
His dad tilted his head forward, eyebrows furrowed – classic Disapproving Face. “You should cut her a bit of slack. I ran into her on the old Miller road. And she mentioned having some…difficulty getting information from her mother, so I don’t think she had much to pass on."  
  
“Yeah, all right,” Stiles said, dragging his eyes up from his phone to _really_  look at his dad. He had that tightness around his eyes that he always got whenever he mentioned that road, or the cemetery it led to, or the reason why they both made an effort to go there at least once a week. But there was something… deeper about that tightness this time. There was more of a pull around his pinched lips, more of strain around his stiff shoulders. “Dad, is everything okay?”  
  
“Yeah, son, everything’s fine.” Stiles knew his dad knew that he was watching every move the man made, which is why his dad took a _really_  long drink from the coffee cup, sucked in a deep breath, and slid on his Sheriff Face. “I just wanted to make sure that you were awake because I just got the call from Alan Deaton: Derek should be getting here in about twenty minutes, and I’m not letting you answer the door before you’re showered and dressed. So get your damned lazy ass out of bed.” His dad turned to head back down the hall "I’ll be downstairs, being kind enough to make you breakfast.”  
  
“Don’t think I’ll let you make bacon just ‘cuz we have guests!” Stiles shouted after him.  
  
Stiles was distracted enough by these mystery attacks that dragging himself into the shower wasn’t too difficult. Because he didn’t care what his dad thought – it’s _never_  just an animal attack in Beacon Hills.  
  
But once he was standing under the hot water, it became too easy to just let his shoulder drop beneath the spray and mindlessly zone out in the steam. By the time he shook his head clear, it had definitely been longer than twenty minutes, and the hot water was _way_  past the comfortable point of long gone.  
  
He finished up, got dressed, and padded into the kitchen. Derek was already there, carefully eating from a plate of bacon that Stiles’s dad kept sneaking pieces from. Stiles threw a glare at him, which the filthy traitor studiously ignored.  
  
“Don’t think I’m gonna let this slide,” he said, waving his hand over the plate. He then snagged a piece of bacon for himself, and turned to Derek. “Hey, man. You’re looking better than when I saw you last.”  
  
It was mostly true. Right now, Derek looked kind of gaunt, like he hadn’t be able to keep down any food in the last week, and had dragged the sleeves of his shirt down past his palms like he could somehow shield himself with the thin fabric. But even though Derek clearly hadn’t bothered to do anything with his beard and looked like a crazed mountain man as a result, he was in an _infinitely_  better state than the one Stiles, Scott, Kira, and Lydia had found him in, full of bullet holes and left to die.  
  
Derek nodded, but flicked his eyes up to Stiles before carefully pulling one of his sleeve up to the middle of his forearm. “I’m better, but Deaton still hasn’t been able to get the wolfsbane out of my system.” His skin was covered in veins, bulging tendrils that looked exactly like every other instance of wolfsbane poisoning that Stiles had unfortunately gotten up close and personal with. But instead of the inky black that it was _supposed_  to be, the veins were a deep vibrant blue.  
  
“ _Whoa_ ,” Stiles said, reaching out to snag Derek’s wrist and hold it up an inch from his nose as Derek rolled his eyes. “Dude, how does that even _work_? I thought the point of wolfsbane was that it was supposed to _kill_  you.”  
  
“I’m aware of that, thank you,” Derek growled, but didn’t bother pulling back his hand until Stiles had finished his inspection. “Deaton says it might be one of two things – either this is a strain of wolfsbane that has different effects that what we’re used to, or something’s stopped the progress of the poison before it actually killed me.”  
  
“Any chance Deaton actually _told_  you what strain it was, or what exactly can stop wolfsbane, even partially?” Stiles asked, reaching back over and poking at one of the blue veins.  
  
Derek grimaced. “He said he ‘has some ideas’.”  
  
Stiles rolled his eyes. “Of _course_  he does.”  
  
“But you’re positive the person who shot you was Kate?” His dad asked, sliding into the seat next to him and reaching for the large manila envelope that Derek had brought with him. Stiles slid the plate of bacon to the far side of the table.  
  
Derek closed his eyes. “I’m positive. I thought it was a dream but it… it wasn’t.”  
  
Stiles’s dad gave a soft sigh and pressed his lips together, letting go of the envelope to pat Derek’s wrist reassuringly. “It’s all right, son,” he said softly. “You don’t… have to talk about this, if you don’t want to.”  
  
Stiles let his gaze drift over to his dad. He sometimes wondered how much his dad knew about what exactly Kate Argent did to Derek in order to set that fire at the Hale house, if he was able to piece it together from the way Derek tried not flinch at Kate’s name and the way Stiles had torn through the station last week, angrily demanding that his dad dig up _everything_  about her.  
  
Derek shook his head. “It’s not that I don’t want to. I just don’t remember much. She shot me, and I went down. I was pretty out of it, and I could hear movement, but I didn’t even know that they were setting these rings –“ he nodded at the envelope Stiles’s dad was holding “ – until everyone else got there right after and got me out of there.”  
  
Stiles scrunched up his face. It wasn’t quite _that_  easy, and it was pretty clear that when they arrived, “right after” wasn’t really the best way to describe the time frame they had been working with. “Derek, you were gone for two days when we finally tracked you down. The only reason Lydia could find you was because you were _right_  on the verge of death.”  
  
Derek’s brow furrowed, and his eyes flicked to the side as he processed the information, but before he could say anything, Stiles’s dad was already talking.  
  
“Do you know how many people there were?” he asked, pulling the pictures out. “This is pretty elaborate.”  
  
Stiles leaned over his shoulder. It wasn’t the best picture, taken in the dim light on Lydia’s phone and blown up to an 8x10, but it showed enough. There was Derek, in the middle, slumped over and barely breathing, with four perfect circles drawn out in nested rings around him, nearly twenty feet in diameter. The first and last were made of mountain ash, Stiles knew that for sure, meaning that Scott was kept the furthest away from Derek’s body, and Derek wouldn’t have been able to crawl from his spot on the floor even if he could have. He had no idea what the middle two rings were made of – one was some kind of grass and the other a bunch of white stones. But he does know that when the three of them rushed towards Derek, Scott snarling and shoving against the invisible wall behind them, Kira had recoiled as if burned nearly six inches from the green ring, and Lydia had stumbled before the stones, covering her ears and screaming as tears ran down her face.   
  
Only Stiles had made it to center, and it was he was the only other person in Lydia’s picture, cradling Derek’s head and flailing as he tried to remember enough first aid to check for a pulse.  
  
 _“Stiles! Deaton says you need to keep him awake, no matter what!” Scott was shouting from the far end of the circle, clutching his phone and pacing. “If he falls unconscious, he’ll die!"_  
  
 _“Ya hear that? Derek? Derek, stay awake. C’mon, just till Deaton gets here. You don’t wanna die with my voice being the last thing you hear, right? Derek!"_  
  
Derek shook his head at the Sheriff’s question. “I don’t know.” He closed his eyes. “There was… definitely more than one, but I don’t know the exactly number. There was one voice other than hers, male, but more footsteps and heartbeats than I could keep track of."  
  
Stiles’s dad nodded. “That’s all right. It’s a start.” He pulled out his glasses and began flipping through the rest of the pictures. “Do we know what any of these magic circles are?" Stiles appreciated Lydia’s foresight. After she had dragged herself away from the ring of stones and spent five minutes impatiently tapping her foot at Scott’s pacing, she had snapped and told Kira to calm Scott down while she did something useful. Stiles was distracted during most of it, but she had told him after that the space they were in was completely empty aside from the rings, so she had gone about getting close ups of everything she could for future reference.  
  
There was one ring she wasn’t able to get a picture of, because it was beyond the edge of the circle of stones she couldn’t pass, but Stiles suspected that even if there was photographic evidence of it, Deaton wouldn’t be all that forthcoming about it.  
  
 _Stiles stared at Deaton, a foot away from him and on the wrong side of the mountain ash barrier. “What are you doing?” he damned. “Get over here! Help Derek!”_  
  
 _Deaton looked apologetic, but didn’t move. “I’m sorry, Stiles, but I can’t.” He looked down at the floor beneath him, and Stiles noticed for the first time one more ring between Lydia’s stones and the mountain ash, made of red letters too small to see from where he was._  
  
 _“Ugh, fine!” Stiles gave Derek’s face one more firm slap to keep him from drifting off and stood up to go get the syringe in Deaton’s hand himself._  
  
 _“No, Stiles, wait!” The urgency in Deaton’s voice was enough to make Stiles stop, but it sure as hell didn’t stop the suspicious glare. “I’ve already triggered this seal, but now it will affect you, too. If any part of you crosses this line to get the syringe, you don’t be able to go back to Derek."_  
  
 _“Well, what do you want me to do, then?” Stiles snapped. “If you can’t come to me, and I can’t come back from you, are we just going to leave him to die?”_  
  
 _“No,” Deaton said, pressing his lips together. “You need to find a way to get Derek across that mountain ash."_  
  
He didn’t mention that, though. Instead, he reached over his dad’s hands and dug out the pictures of the dark grainy ring. “That one’s mountain ash. Werewolves can’t cross it. We hate it."  
  
Derek nodded, and reached for the close up of the green stuff. It wasn’t really a plant, but more of a tangled mass of knots and tendrils. “Letharia Vulpina,” he said. “Deaton confirmed it."  
  
Stiles winced. “Fox lichen.” He closed his eyes, kind of surprised at how nauseous he suddenly felt. It’s not like he personally has anything against the stuff, but knowing first hand the effect it has can drastically change your opinion on something. “No wonder Kira couldn’t touch it."  
  
His dad nodded, flipped to the next picture, and grimaced. “Are these what I think they are?"  
  
Stiles opened his eyes and leaned back over. He hadn’t been paying attention in his rush to get to Derek, but now that he was looking at the picture, he realized that they weren’t stones at all. “Are those _teeth_?” he asked. His mouth dropped open, half gagging, as the rest of his writhed at how _super gross_  the idea was.  
  
“Children’s teeth,” Derek said grimly.  
  
“Why the hell would some teeth stop a banshee?” Stiles’s dad demanded.  
  
Derek swallowed. “Deaton thinks that they belonged to children who died.”  
  
Stiles gave himself a moment to convulsively shudder before he dragged his hands down his face and said, “That is _disgusting_.”  
  
“That’s a bit too smart for my liking,” his dad muttered, staring at the photo and chewing on his lip.  
  
Derek turned to him. “What.”  
  
“The mountain ash makes sense,” Stiles’s dad said. “Werewolf hunting is what the Argents do. But the first time Kate ‘died’ was before you all figured out that Lydia was a banshee, and _long_  before the Yukimuras moved to town.”  
  
Stiles straightened up as he caught on to what his dad was saying. “So how would Kate Argent know how to stop them?”  
  
Derek frowned. “She’s getting information. From someone who _knows_  us.”  
  
Stiles’s dad flicked his eyes between Derek and Stiles, his Sheriff Face back in full force. “Any chance this informant of hers has anything to do with those animal attacks yesterday?”  
  
Stiles rolled his eyes. “I thought you said those were actually just animal attacks.”  
  
His dad tapped the pictures. “I said I was willing to reconsider if I was given more evidence.”  
  
“Wait,” Derek said, stiff and ill at ease. “ _What_  animal attacks? When?”  
  
The Sheriff looked up. “Yesterday afternoon and evening. The first one was at a gas station, around 1:30pm, and we think the other one was just before sunset. Why?”  
  
Stiles jumped at the scrape of Derek’s chair against the floor. His brow was furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line. “Because I have no memory of yesterday afternoon. According to Deaton, I just disappeared before lunch, and I didn’t come back until after dark.”  
  
Stiles sucked in a breath. Not again. This couldn’t be happening again. “We don’t know it was you, Derek.”  
  
“The time _fits_ , Stiles,” Derek snapped, just enough snarl in his voice that Stiles was overwhelmed with the sudden need to stand up and pick a fight.  
  
“But so far, there’s no confirmation that anything wolf-like was the cause of the attacks,” his dad said, carefully standing up and moving around the table. “There’s no point in declaring yourself guilty if there’s no evidence to support that."  
  
“Yeah, Derek,” Stiles said, glaring. “So how about you put a cork in your pre-emptive martyrdom for five minutes until we can figure this out? You don’t have the monopoly on murder in this town, and just because people are dead doesn’t mean you can start hunting for people to crucify you."  
  
“Stiles is right,” his dad said, placing his hand on Derek’s shoulder, but levelling his Serious Eye Contact at Stiles. “No matter how this turns out, you can’t hold yourself responsible for the things that happen when you’re not in control of yourself, no matter how bad those things are.”  
  
Stiles abruptly leaned back and scowled, folding his arms across his chest. “ _Thank you,_  dad, for your daily feel-good words of encouragement.” When Derek tilted his head at him and raised an eyebrow, Stiles flapped his hand dismissively. “ _Anyways_ , we’re actually here to discuss the problems directly caused by our favourite psychopath, Kate Argent. I’d like to note for the record that these problems include some pretty obvious-but-yet-unproven scheming of the Not Good variety and a major party foul against the universal laws of _staying dead_.”  
  
“Deaton says he doesn’t know how Kate’s still alive,” Derek said. His arms were now folded across his chest as well, and he was glaring off towards the sink, but Stiles noticed that one of his shoulders was just a little bit slumped where his dad’s hand was resting on it. “But he’s pretty positive she _is_  alive. Not like… undead, or anything."  
  
“So no zombies,” Stiles muttered. “That’s a plus. She’s just a born-again murderer who’s... what? Staying in a dingy motel until she can pull off her next scheme?"   
  
“No motels or hotels within twenty miles of the city have any guests matching her description. And I’ve got nothing showing any indication that she’s squatting in a warehouse or abandoned building,” his dad sighed. “No dings from stolen credit cards or grocery stores with a spike in shoplifting. There was also an Argent who was actually a deputy in Beacon Hills back in the 90s. I don’t have any evidence that he did anything that actually looks like tampering. But any case that had even a whiff of his family involvement has some of the most half-assed paperwork I’ve seen in my life, so I can’t tell you anything about her background, either."  
  
“She won’t be hiding in the woods,” Derek said. “I’d know. And it’s not… not her style. If she’s in a hotel, she’d have gotten someone else to pay for her, someone who doesn’t know anything.” Stiles watched as he squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, as if trying to clear it. "The only grocery store she’d get food from is the one on Fourth, and… and she…”  
  
Stiles pushed up against the table to lever himself up. “Derek? Derek, are you okay?”  
  
“I…” Derek gasped as he winced away from… nothing. Then snarled. Not the sarcastic banter snarl. The bad one. Stiles's dad took one look at the situation and ran for his phone. “I… Kate’s here…”  
  
“ _What_?” Stiles yelped, coming around the table and trying to grab at Derek’s shaking arms. “Kate’s here at the house? Right _now_?"  
  
“No…” Derek choked out as his knees slammed into the floor. He pressed the heels of his hands to the side of his head. “ _Here_.” Then the rest of his body slumped downwards, fingers twitching as his claws grew and receded, eyes flickering in an out of their bright blue as they twisted in pain.  
  
“Oh, my god,” Stiles said, “There’s a werewolf having a seizure in my kitchen.” He shoved his fingers in his hair. “I don’t have a contingency plan for this.”  
  
“I do,” his dad said, sliding under Derek’s arm and hauling him up with a grunt. “I already called Deaton, and he knows we’re on out way. Come on! We have to _move_.”  
  
***  
Stiles _always_  looked for an excuse to get the sirens going whenever he was in his dad’s cruiser. He'd even faked a 911 call once. But it’s one thing to convince Dispatch that there’s retiree suffering from a chainsaw juggling attempt gone wrong, and something else altogether to be in the back seat of a police car with a writhing, moaning werewolf as his dad sped through traffic.  
  
“ _What the hell is your anchor_ , man?” He was screaming. “Because you better find it _right now_. I refuse to be killed by anything less than a _dragon_  now, and a wolf in a car isn’t freaking cutting it!"  
  
He was slapping at Derek’s wrists whenever one of them came close enough that the claws at the end of them could accidentally eviscerate him. Thankfully, the cage that separated the back from the front was far enough away from his dad’s seat that there was no potential for an accidental beheading, as long as Stiles distracted him from tearing right through it.  
  
“She…. she’s in my head,” Derek groaned, his arm lashing out as if he were batting away something above his ear. “She’s _talking_  to me. The more I think about her, the more it –“ he gasped “– it _hurts_."   
  
“Then think of something else!” Stiles snapped, shoving his foot against Derek’s knee and pushing out. “Think of…think of that stupid soccer mom car that’s totally ruining your street cred. Or that secret membership that I totally know you have at Old Navy to order those grey shirts in bulk. Recite multiplication tables or… or somethi–– _aaahhh_!"  
  
His dad had swung around a corner, and Stiles had screeched as Derek was flung into his half of the car. Derek had slammed into him like a human cement truck, but when Stiles took stock of the damage, there was nothing that really felt like surprise puncture wounds. He grimaced as he opened his eyes, expecting to see a mouthful of fangs, but Derek was just groaning, pushing against the window behind Stiles’s head to leverage himself back to his side. The claws and fangs seemed… gone, for now, which was great, but Derek’s eyes were still shining a bright blue, and he wheezed like there was a lead weight on his chest.  
  
“I don’t,” he gasped. “I don’t have an Old Navy membership.” He clenched and unclenched his hands, staring at the tremors running through them.  
  
“Whatever you need to tell yourself, man.” Stiles sucked in a breath, dragging his fingers through his hair. “You doing all right there?"  
  
“I…I’m better, yeah,” Derek said quietly. He pulled himself into a vaguely upright position, still staring at his shaking hands. “What the hell is wrong with me?” he muttered.  
  
“Hey, we’ll figure it out,” Stiles said, slumping down beside him. “We’ll get rid of the wolfsbane, figure out Kate’s game, and kick her ass. This time, I’ll personally bury her deep enough that there’s _no way_  she can come back.”  
  
Derek gave a tired snort. “I bet you couldn’t hold a shovel up long enough to uproot a garden bed.”  
  
“Hey! I held _you_  off!”  
  
“You tried to contain a half-feral werewolf by _slapping_  him.”  
  
“You judge, but you’re not half-feral anymore, now are you?” Stiles folded his arms triumphantly. “I found the key to making you turn back.”  
  
“If you’re implying that my anchor is _annoyance_  –“  
  
“Boys!” Stiles’s dad snapped. “I’m glad you two fixed the problem with the fangs, but Derek’s still going a bit too blue for my comfort, and now that we’re _here_ , it’d be nice if you could shut up long enough to get him inside and figure things out.”  
  
Stiles let himself scan over Derek’s face, which really did have an uncomfortably blue tone just under the skin. He kicked open the door, flopped out, and reached back in to drag Derek after him. “I’ve got him, Dad. You run in and give Deaton the 411.”  
  
He didn’t actually need to go far. Deaton was already standing outside, waiting, and as soon as he had access to it, he jabbed Derek’s neck with a disturbingly long needle that made Stiles squirm into a position that let him gesticulate his disgust while still holding Derek up.  
  
“Come on,” Deaton said to Stiles’s dad, “I’ll need your help in the back preparing some things. Stiles, put him on the examining table.”  
  
“Hey! Thanks for the help carrying him in!” Stiles shouted at their backs. Then his knees nearly gave out as Derek slumped and suddenly became a _whole_ lot heavier. “ _Ohhnff_ , my god, what are you _made_  of. Derek? Hey, Derek? You with me?”  
  
Derek’s head had rolled forward. “Nnnnugh. Wolf is…issss asleep. Kate’s gone. _Tired_."  
  
It was pretty clear that Stiles wasn’t going to be gaining any forward momentum without help, so he planted his hand in the middle of Derek’s back and shoved forward in the hopes that if Derek stumbled, it’d at least get them a few feet closer to the door. “C’mon. I know you want to fall over right now, but just help me get you _hhhhhnnnhff_  inside. So, waking up the wolf makes you mind-meld with Kate? That’s not a good sign. No, no–! Upright, there we go! Jesus _Christ_ , you weight a ton.”  
  
Derek was slightly more awake by the time Stiles had gotten him through the door and into the examining room. Which was good, because getting him up on the table was definitely a team effort. His dad and Deaton were in the back where the supplies were, doing some kind of excavation, and were loud enough that Stiles nearly missed the quiet “Thank you,” that Derek murmured.  
  
“Wha… this?” Stiles heaved, placing his hands on his knees as he tried to suck in air. “That’s noth…nothing. Barely broke a sweat. I could do this all day. Seriously, though, do you eat nothing but bricks?"  
  
Derek snorted. “Get in better shape then.” His legs were hanging over the side of the table, and his fingers were gripping the metal edge hard enough to hide the tremble. “I meant _thank you_ ,” he muttered, staring somewhere over Stiles’s left ear, before flicking his gaze down to meet his eyes. “For everything.”  
  
Stiles licked his lips. This was probably the first and only time Derek Hale would utter gratitude, and Stiles felt weirdly less interested in gloating than he thought he would be. It was a thank you for finding him, probably, for keeping him conscious while the cavalry sped through town. It might even have been a thank you for getting him through the mountain ash barrier and to the syringe of whatever life-saving goop Deaton shot through his veins, but Stiles was pretty positive that Derek was too out of it to remember that.  
  
“Yeah, well, consider yourself a benefactor of the giant debt I’m trying to pay back to the universe,” Stiles muttered, sliding his eyes away. “And humanity.”  
  
“You know that’s not going to stop the guilt, right?” Stiles snorted as he looked back at Derek again, his eyebrows squirming between showing as much skepticism as humanly possible and making it plenty clear that this was the start of a conversation that was going to end with everyone being _plenty_  pissed off. But Derek just took in his expression and shrugged. “It was… something your dad said, earlier.”  
  
“Yeah, well, my dad doesn’t really know what it’s like to be made complicit in multiple homicides against your will, does he?”  
  
“No, he doesn’t,” Derek said, “But I do. I know exactly what it feels like to have nothing but a legacy of dead bodies to your name. Trying to pay off this debt of yours isn’t going to fix things."  
  
“But once I come to terms to fact that what the nogitsune did _wasn’t my fault_ , just like everyone keeps telling me, I’ll feel all better?” Stiles scrunched up his nose because what he really wanted to do was snarl and even if Derek’s wolf was _sleeping_ or whatever, it still wasn’t a good idea. "Just like you have? Are you seriously telling me to use you as the poster child for trauma recovery?”  
  
Derek rolled his eyes. “ _No_. I’m telling you to do the exact opposite of that, you idiot. Stop cutting yourself off from your dad and Scott whenever they’re trying to help you. You can’t ––“  
  
Derek pressed his lips together with a frustrated exhale, turning towards the door as Deaton and Stiles’s dad came in.  
  
“I think I’ve found a temporary solution to your wolfsbane problem, Derek,” Deaton said, holding up a small vial of gunky green liquid. “But if this works, it unfortunately means a much longer list of other problems that we’ll have to start dealing with.”  
  
Derek glanced down at the vial, then back up to Deaton. “You want me to drink that.” At Deaton’s nod, he grabbed the vial, winced at the smell, and downed the entire thing. It looked like he choked on the last of it though, leaving Derek wracked with coughs half-blinded by his watering eyes. When he caught his breath again, he blinked, then yanked up the sleeves of his shirt. The blue veins on his arm weren’t entirely gone, but Stiles had to squint to see their faded traces on Derek’s skin.  
  
“Okay! I’ll call that a success! So is this the temporary solution that leads to more problems?” Stiles asked. “Or a surprise turn of great fortune that means you’ve stopped the wolfsbane from killing him and we can all go home and get ice cream?"  
  
“It’s not the kind of wolfsbane that kills. It’s the kind that poisons, debilitating you enough to leave you susceptible to hallucinations and, sometimes, mind control,” Deaton said, with a careful glance in Stiles’s direction. "It’s one of the rarest strains of wolfsbane known, and I don’t have access to enough to create a full cure for Derek.”  
  
“So that’s a no to the ice cream, then,” Stiles muttered.  
  
“So Derek’s like this…forever?” Stiles’s dad asked, looking like he wanted to rub the back of his neck even though he couldn’t with Deaton’s tray of thingamabobs in his hands. “Susceptible to mind control all the time?”  
  
Stiles closed his eyes and tried to swallowed past the cold, slimy feeling suddenly clogging up his throat.  
  
Deaton sighed. “Quite possibly. There are other ways to expunge it, but it won’t be easy. In the meantime, we can keep it dormant. Like all other forms of wolfsbane, it only attacks the wolf in you. If Kate Argent is using it as a way to access Derek’s mind, keeping your wolf completely dormant should fully block her out.” He gestured Stiles’s dad forward, and Stiles was suddenly close enough to see that the tray include three carefully labelled bottles and a _huge_  syringe that looked kind of like a gun.  
  
“Seriously?” he said. “More needles?"  
  
Deaton, apparently, was ignoring him. He picked up the needle-gun and the bottle with the thick white liquid, turning to Derek. “You’ll have to take a full dose at least once a day for the effect to stick. This counter-measure is, at best, short term, but it will remove any connection you have to your wolf, and any aid your wolf can give you. That includes your heightened senses and your healing ability.” Stiles squashed up his entire face in a grimace as he tried not to hear the gross _shluck_ -ing sound of liquid being pulled into the syringe. “You shouldn’t be alone for this. The transition from human to lycan can be an overwhelming experience, but the adjustment to being just a human requires nearly as much patience."  
  
“I’ll be fine,” Derek growled, and stared off at the window while Deaton gave him the injection and Stiles tried not to faint.  
  
“Is this seriously the only way?” Stiles asked, concentrating on a safely bland section of wall. “Making Derek human for the unknown future? Why is this wolfsbane so hard to counter?"  
  
Deaton was silent for a moment, and didn’t speak until Stiles heard the click of the needle gun on his dad’s tray. “Very little is known about it because it’s so hard to find. It only grows in small parts of Poland, and it’s been heavily guarded for centuries. It’s been expunged from every botanical record that I’m aware of. I don’t know for sure, but it’s been rumoured that its ability to facilitate mind control works on more than just shifters. I do know, though, that it’s unstable, and deadly for even the person harvesting it if it’s not handled properly. The only group of people who can successfully cultivate it are the Zhudaci.”  
  
The sharp clatter of metal on the floor made everyone jump, and Stiles very carefully turned around. It was his dad dropping the tray that had made the noise, but Stiles already knew that. There was suddenly a sinkhole deep in his stomach, sucking down all of his flailing energy, all of his nervous gesticulations. There was only enough room for him to stare at his dad, to share the realization that their unspoken rule to keep this one single thing in their lives away from all of the supernatural carnage wasn’t going to hold.  
  
“Deaton,” Stiles said, meticulously weighing each word with the importance it deserves, “I need you to tell me what you know about the Zhudaci.”  
  
“Stiles?” Derek asked. “Have you heard of them before?”  
  
“I… It was…” Stiles pressed his lips together, because he couldn’t finish the sentence without his voice cracking, and he refused to let that happen with something this important.  
  
“It was a nickname that Claudia had for Stiles when he was little,” his dad finished quietly. “She’d call him her little Zhudac, her little dragon man.”  
  
“So tell me, Deaton,” Stiles said, loathing the rough catch in his voice. “Tell me what that name has to do with wolfsbane and mind control.”  
  
Stiles didn’t care how long the silence dragged out. All he could do was stare at his dad, because his dad didn’t deserve to be dragged into this, and because neither of them deserved the memory of the best human being they had ever known to be dragged into _any_  of this. He didn’t even bother looking when Deaton finally started talking, his uncomfortable voice filling the room.  
  
“A Zhudac is a person who’s said to have the soul of a dragon, but no one knows if that’s actually true. The Zhudaci have spent centuries spreading misinformation about themselves to make sure no one ever found out what their powers actually are. They’re not supernatural, not by any notion of the definition, but they have some sort of inborn power. There’s no documentation on what this power is, or what this power can do, but it can be…triggered when a Zhudac needs to protect someone they care about.”  
  
 _Now_  Stiles moved his stare to Deaton. There was no startled snap of his head. Just enough of a turn to hold Deaton’s gaze and hold him accountable for what he just said. Because Deaton _always_  spoke in doubled meanings. Except this time, Stiles knew exactly what he was talking about.  
  
 _"Stiles,” Deaton had said, “I need you to listen to me. You have to find a way to get Derek across that line of mountain ash.”_  
  
 _“Are you insane?” Stiles had yelled. “I can’t do that!”_  
  
 _“Yes, you can, Stiles,” Deaton’s voice had been calm, so infuriatingly calm. “Pick Derek up. You’ve created mountain ash rings before. You can break this one."_  
  
 _“I can break it by myself! I can’t drag Derek through – he’ll die!"_  
  
 _“Close your eyes, Stiles,” Deaton had said. “Walk Derek through the barrier. You know you can. It’s the only way to save his life."_  
  
Stiles pressed his lips together at the memory and stared right into the “veterinarian’s” eyes, because he knew that Deaton knew that there was nothing about this that was theoretical. “Something like a spark?” he asked grimly.  
  
Stiles could feel Derek’s eyes move over everyone in the room, but it was his dad’s eyes that drilled through the back of Deaton’s head. “It takes a very special person to successfully pull a dying werewolf through a mountain ash ring,” Deaton said softly.  
  
And he had pulled it off, too. Dragged Derek though what felt like a cement wall, one that seemed to burn his _bones_  when he tried to cross. Stiles barely remember what had happened, but he _did_  remember the explosion, booming enough that it threw everyone back. By the time Stiles had shook the ringing out of his ears, Deaton was already tending to Derek, and every single ring  – the ash, the grass, the weird red writing – placed between Derek and safety had vanished without a trace. Derek would live, and Stiles had saved the day.  
  
“That night we found him,” Stiles said. “It had nothing to do with Derek at all, did it? It was a test. It was a test for all of us.”  
  
Deaton didn’t say anything, but he nodded his head, once.  
  
“Alan,” Stiles’s dad said, and Stiles fought down the shiver that tried to shake through him at his voice. It wasn’t his Dad voice, or his Sheriff voice. It was the voice of a good man who should _never_  be messed with. “You and I know that I’ve been avoiding this conversation for my own good. Hell, maybe even yours, too. But I think it’s time you tell me _exactly_  what your relationship was with my wife."  
  
It was weird, because as jumpy as everyone was when his dad dropped the tray, no one even batted an eye at the sudden beeping ring of Stiles’s phone. Not a twitch. They were all just standing there. His dad and Deaton were staring at each other, he was staring at his dad, and Derek was staring at him. Stiles’s phone just continued to ring.  
  
And ring.  
  
Stiles was still frowning at Deaton when he checked his caller ID and answered his phone. “Lydia? Now is seriously the _worst_  time ––”  
  
“Stiles?” It was Lydia, her voice loud and panicked enough that even Deaton and the Sheriff could hear it. “Stiles, something’s wrong.”  
  
Stiles immediately put on speaker phone. “Lydia? Lydia, what is it?”  
  
“I don’t _know_ , but something’s happening _right now_. It’s big, and I think it’s going to hit… everywhere. All over Beacon Hills.”  
  
He could hear it, the rattling of her phone against her earring as she ran for her car, the high pitch in her words. “Okay, Lydia? Lydia, calm down. Take a deep breath and tell us where you are – we’ll come to you. Is there _anything_  that you can tell us than can help us figure out what this is?”  
  
“I… I don’t know, Stiles. I don’t know anything. It’s just… you know that countdown that I was hearing? The ticking? _It’s stopped_."  
  
_________________  
  
Scott kicked down the stand for his bike, and pulled off his helmet as he and Kira climbed off.   
  
“No, really,” she was saying with a grin. “You should watch the video! He just does this weird flapping _thing_  with hands, and the table just _explodes_.”  
  
“Explosions are really cool, but that doesn’t make it the coolest video _ever_.” Scott shook his head. “I _know_  you saw the one with the blue guy.  There’s nothing that can beat that!"  
  
The ride had been surprisingly nice. He hadn’t spent any time alone with Kira since…. since everything. It was nice to just talk about school and candy and weird online videos. It had ended up being one of those few times where the anger inside of him wasn’t a constant press against the back of his throat. It wasn’t gone completely, but it was banked, like old embers, easy to ignore.  
  
“You know,” Kira was saying as they walked towards the large clearing, “It’s kind of a shame we’re trying to keep ourselves secret. I mean, I totally understand that it’d be _terrible_  if people found out about werewolves and kitsune and monsters in general, but if we ever filmed our fighting practices, we’d probably become super famo –– uh. Did you invite him?”  
  
“I really didn’t,” Scott snarled, and just like that, the embers burst up into a steady, fierce burn. “What are you doing here, Peter?”  
  
For the record, Peter’s stupid need to constantly make an entrance like a stupid drama queen was really stupid. He was standing in the middle of the clearing with his arms folded across his chest, wearing silver-framed sunglasses and expensive-looking shoes.  
  
“Now, Scott,” Peter said, tilting his head. “Haven’t we overcome our differences by now?”  
  
“ _No_.” He heard Kira shift beside him, reaching to grab the hilt of her katana, and he gave in to the urge to let his eyes bleed red. “You haven’t answered my question.”  
  
Peter shrugged. “I wanted to offer you information. A heads up, if you will. A suggestion that you should take all those people you’re fond of and go visit other parts of this lovely country. Washington, perhaps. I hear Seattle is lovely in November.”  
  
“Why do you need us to leave town?” Kira took a step forward. “What’s going on?”  
  
“Nothing to concern you,” Peter lifted his fingers from his elbow just enough to flap them dismissively. “I just know that you’re all due for a bit of rest and relaxation, especially everything that just happened. And some of you, especially of the human persuasion, have a bit of a delicate constitution.”  
  
Scott left his eyes red, but refused to turn the rest of the way. He knew what Peter was doing. He wanted to get a reaction out of Scott, goad him into doing something angry and rash. And Scott _really_  wanted to do something angry and rash.  
  
Instead, he took three steps forward and straightened his back. “I’m not going to leave. You should know by now that I’m going to stay and protect everyone in Beacon Hills from whatever it is that you have planned."  
  
Peter’s eyebrow lifted above the frames of the sunglasses. “Just like you protected sweet Allison?”  
  
Scott’s body was coiled and crouched, ready to spring at Peter with a roar, when Malia burst into the clearing at a dead sprint, yelling.  
  
“Scott! Scott, something’s coming! There’s a…a predator in the woods, but it’s not natural. It’s… it’s _wrong_!"  
  
“Wait, here?” Peter asked, frowning.  
  
“Malia, what did you see?” Scott said.  
  
“Nothing. I didn’t see anything. I was running here through the woods, and –"  
  
“Wait, where’s Lydia?” Kira asked. Her voice was laced with a note of anxiety that Scott didn’t quite understand. "Wasn’t she supposed to pick you up?”  
  
“Didn’t show up. I just ran here. But then I heard a thing, and it _smelled_  bad, but then I couldn’t make my senses work properly and now I can’t make sense of anything. All I hear are birds, and that creek north of here, and there’s the smell of tires from the road and –“  
  
Malia sucked in a startled breath. Peter had stalked up to her mid-sentence, grabbing her face in both of his hands and cutting her off. Scott was already moving forward to intercept him, but Kira placed a soft hand on his arm, and he stilled.  
  
“Malia. Close your eyes. _Close your eyes_ ,” Peter snapped. Malia snorted, but after staring at him in distrust for a moment, she carefully followed his orders. “Good. Keep them closed. Ignore the birds, ignore the cars. Think of nothing but the predator. Just focus on your senses, one at a time. What it sound like? What does it smell like?"  
  
“It sounds like… scales. And claws, the way the scrape with animals too heavy to lift their feet properly. But it smells like… like something burning.” Malia opened her eyes, then yanked her chin out of Peter’s hands, backing up until Scott was able to reach out an put a hand on her shoulder. She was frowning just as much as Peter was. “Who are you, anyways? What are you even doing here?"  
  
“Protecting my interests,” Peter said, pulling a small metal ball from his pocket. He clicked it, and Scott recognized the ticking sound it was making only as Peter turned, tossing the ball over his shoulder as he walked away.  
  
“Flash bomb!” He yelled. “Everyone cover your ––“  
  
The ticking stop with a sharp whistle, and Scott’s entire world was flooded white. His wolf ripped out of him, snarling in offence at the compromised senses. Thankfully, his hearing and sense of smell were more or less fine, but he couldn’t see a thing. So he closed his eyes and concentrated. Malia was still close, but Kira was further away. He could hear something coming, though, a dry scrape of something being dragged over the stones and twigs in the clearing. The smell was nearly overwhelming. It wasn’t the smoke and charcoal scent of a fire, but a sharp and bitter stench that burned his nostrils and left and awful taste in the back of his throat.  
  
“Scott!” Kira yelled. “Scott, I can’t ––"  
  
Scott spun, helpless, and Kira’s sudden scream was drowned out by a gurgling hiss.


	2. Onslaught

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scott shrugged. “I think I caught everyone up on the basics: Peter is up to something, Kate is up to something, the Beacon is calling new supernatural creatures to town, and the barrier thing that we didn’t even know was protecting us from them is now down.”
> 
> “Are you saying that we were living in the safe Beacon Hills up until this point?” Stiles said, looking kind of like an affronted cat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, a HUGE thank you goes out to wordscannotlie for her constant encouragement and suggestions. And also to that lovely anonymous person who sent me a beautifully supportive message right when my will to write was flagging!
> 
> Please check the endnotes for general warnings: there's a forced addressing of some character trauma, and a lot of canon-typical violence in this chapter, but given the detail, you might want a heads up.
> 
> Also: I know we're currently through Season 4 right now, but this fic was story-boarded long before it started, and is based entirely on what went on in 3a and 3b. Any echoes to what's currently airing isn't responsive, it's more coincidental.

Being blinded _sucked_. Malia hated it.  
  
A single day with a single sense crippled the way her sight had been by that stupid, exploding _thing_  is enough to get you killed when you’re trying to survive in the woods. And now, she was in the middle of being _attacked_  by the worst smelling predator that her other senses have had to deal with.  
  
What had that guy – Pete? – said? He was “protecting his interests”? She’d like to show that stupid face-grabber a thing or two about protecting _her_  interests, probably with her teeth.  
  
“Scott!” she shouted, half-crouched, claws out. “Scott, what do we do?"  
  
“Keep your eyes closed,” he called back. His voice was ahead of her and on her right. Not far. “Use your hearing, your sense of smell. Only attack if you know where it is.”  
  
She could hear it, all right. It was on the far side of Scott, puffing out gurgling hisses and making soft grunts. And it smelled _too_  much. Like garbage and spoiled meat and cleaning chemicals. Her eyes would have been more useful than her hearing, but her nose was was her best sense. Only it was too overwhelmed to work properly, burned like bleach by the wall of stench. Malia crouched, teeth bared, a warning rumble bubbling in the back of her throat. She didn’t _want_  to fight blind, but she wasn’t going to stand around waiting for it to attack like an idiot.  
  
“Don’t touch its scales!” Kira gasped. Malia swung her head at the new sound. She was also ahead of Malia, but her voice was way lower down than Scott’s. On the ground? There was a laboured squeaking against the dew-covered grass, the sound of a body shoving itself away from the smell. “I think I stabbed it, but I think it’s scales are covered in acid. I… I’m burned really bad."  
  
Scott let out a harsh growl, and Malia could head the thump of a body hitting the ground. “Too late. _Aauuuughh_. You got it’s back leg, but it’s really _fast_. And it burns _everywhere_."  
  
“And don’t –“ Kira was wheezing, no longer moving and sucking air through blades of grass “– don’t let…it bite…"  
  
Malia tried to picture the clearing around her. It was small enough. Malia’s senses were a mess, but her legs worked just fine. She could be in the trees in seconds. She should run, hide deep in the woods until her vision cleared and her nose worked and the threat was gone. She was a predator, but all predators know when they’re outmatched and only the stupid ones keep fighting at that point. The whole die-for-you-pack insanity was a wolf thing, and she didn’t spend ten years surviving as a wolf.   
  
And suddenly the reek of rotten meat had moved, _fast, too fast_ , and was _right_  beside her. Malia sprung sideways as scales scraped and a mouth bit at her, feeling the flutter of air on her skin as the teeth just missed her wrist. She heard it shift in the grass beside her, heavier and clumsier on it’s right side, but still trying for another attack. She spun away from the gurgling mouth again, but wasn’t able to dodge its sweeping tail.  
  
Malia grunted out a sharp cry. She only felt the tail flick across her mid-calf, but the splatter of burning seemed to shoot down to her heel and up past her knee, like she was sticking her leg in hot oil or something. She lashed out before she fully realized she was at a disadvantage, but her hand didn’t hit any scales, didn’t get burned. Instead, her claws caught on something that felt like a leather sheet, soft and rippling. She tore down until the flesh ripped, until her fingers found bone under the skin. Malia gripped the bone and snarled, twisting the way she had twisted with hundreds of rabbits and birds, until she heard the satisfying crack of a joint giving way.  
  
“Malia!” Scott was shouting, and Kira was gasping, and the creature was yowling, and somewhere someone’s phone was going off with a song about being hungry and wolves. She should probably answer Scott, but she was too busy _ripping off the limb_  of this stupid thing. “Malia! Are you all right?"  
  
Malia kicked the thing in its snapping jaw with her already burning foot, throwing aside the leg/wing thing, and shaking the slime of blood from her fingers. “ _Hah_! There! _Two_  legs down. Take that, you stupid reptile!” She tried to hobble away to catch her bearings, but she couldn’t avoid the sudden swishing sound of a swiping claw fast enough. It caught her ankle, making her stumble, and while the creature toppled on it’s two useless legs, it still gained just enough forward momentum. Its open mouth landed right where she was stumbling, and Malia could hear a scraping twist of a neck as it jerked forward and sunk its teeth right into the meat of her burning leg.  
  
This time, she screamed.  
  
Her breath slammed out of her as she hit the ground chest first, making her blind eyes water. She kicked out her leg, still screaming, trying to shake the stupid thing off, but its teeth were deep enough that she could feel them click against the bone of her shin. Pain, from the burning, from the bite, crashed up her spine and crackled in her neck, bringing full tears to her stupid, _useless_  eyes as she _choked_  on the rancid bleach smell covering her. She could feel the pull as the creature shifted its weight, sunk its claws into her inner thigh, and began to slide its way up her body.  
  
She didn’t even sense Scott racing towards her, had almost no idea what was going on when a different weight landed on the weight covering her, yanking out the agonizing blades of teeth and claws in her skin, and rolling it away.  
  
Malia nearly howled at the freedom, rolling over onto her stomach and trying to crawl away. She could feel the blood seeping out of her leg, the burn now spread along her side and forearm from contact she didn’t even remember making. She couldn’t smell a thing other than the creature anymore, but her vision was slowly trying to come back, blurred and splotchy but so much better than nothing. Behind her, she could hear Scott grappling with the creature, roaring constantly, scuffing in the grass and twigs as they rolled.  
  
Why? There was no reason for it – the creature had her, and the time it would have taken to kill her was more than enough for Scott to get Kira and leave. She wasn’t his mate, she wasn’t his child, and she wasn’t his pack. Why was he doing this –– getting clawed and bitten and burned –– to save her?  
  
“Malia…” said a weak voice to her left. Kira? Malia edged forward until her hand bumped into a leg. Kira hissed in pain at the touch, but if Malia squinted through the haze, she could see a blob that was sort of head-like turn towards her. “Malia. I’m glad you came back for me."  
  
“I was trying to get into the forest and escape,” Malia said.  
  
“That’s a good plan, too.” Kira arms were limp at her sides, and while Malia couldn’t see anything for sure, she knew exactly what she was feeling when she crawled forward and her hand landed in a puddle of something warm and thick.  
  
“Where did it bite you?” Malia asked, close enough now that she could prop herself up on her side by Kira. She slid a hand behind Kira’s neck, just so she’d stop flopping her head around so much.  
  
“I think my liver? Or my pancreas. Biology sucks.” Kira was _still_  trying to look for something. “How woozy do you get from blood loss? B’cuz I’m _really_  woozy."  
  
“You’re not healing,” Malia said, frowning. Why wasn’t she healing? Malia’s leg was oozing blood, and she could feel the spasming throb of her burned skin as it shifted against the ground, but she could already feel her muscles begin to knit, the agony of melted skin drop to a dull throb.  
  
Malia could feel Kira twitch her shoulder upward, rolling her head towards her. “Not a kitsune thing?”  
  
“Kitsune, huh?” said a voice above her. “Huh. That’s new.”  
  
Malia nearly launched herself up at the shadow that fell over her, her vision and her leg and Kira’s flopping head be damned. “Who are you?” she snapped.  
  
“I’m the person you’re going to be thanking in about three minutes,” she said. Malia squinted up, and the person lifted something long and black. “Scott!” she shouted. “Move! You’re blocking my shot!"  
  
Scott roared, an alpha roar that had Malia gasping and halfway through shutting down every animalistic instinct she had before she came to her senses. She wasn’t his pack, and he wasn’t her alpha, but he had dragged back to humanity with that roar years after she had accepted that she would never see it again. She’d probably never be able to stop her instinctual response to it if she tried.  
  
“Hurry up!” The voice above Malia snapped. “I’m not challenging your strength, stupid. Let me shoot it, so you can get back here to tend to your wounded!”  
  
Malia could hear growls, snapping teeth, hisses, and gurgles. Then the heavy thud of a thrown body slamming into the ground. Malia craned her neck behind her, willing her eyes to have more than two feet of clear vision.  
  
“Finally.” The shadow muttered, then moved into her line of sight. “You don’t want to look.”  
  
Malia snarled, because she had been murdering animals for food for _years_. It wasn’t like she was going to _faint_  at the sight of something being killed.  
  
She didn’t get to say anything, because the sudden booming _crack_  of a gunshot startled her so much that she twitched, grimacing at the pain that jolted up through her leg. Definitely not healed yet. The shot was followed by another, and another, three thundering crashes of gunfire that echoed through the forest and scared birds from the trees.  
  
Kira groaned. “Scott? Is he okay?”  
  
Malia reached over to shove shadow-girl’s knee out of the way and squinted. She could hear the creature, keening and gurgling, squeaking on the grass – the sound of a body dragging its stench into the trees – burning leaves and branches in its wake. It was too far to see through the white spots clogging the edges of her vision, but she could make out the shape that was Scott, shoving himself up to his knees. “Is alive okay enough?”  
  
Kira nodded, gaze unfocused. “I’ll take it.”  
  
“The thing’s not dead, by the way,” shadow-girl said, crouching down to pick up her bullet shells. Malia squinted, and finally got a good look at her. Dark skin, bored eyes, white scars dragging down her throat. “It’s probably not even dying. But that’ll get it out of your hair for a few days."  
  
“Who _are_  you?” Malia shook her head.  
  
“Braeden,” Scott’s voice said just behind her, drained and croaking. “She’s Braeden. A mercenary.”  
  
“Damn good one, too,” Braeden said, standing back up.  
  
Scott had moved around from behind Malia and dropped back down on the other side of Kira. He was coated in blood and rusty green goop, but he didn’t even bother wiping it off before running his fingers through Kira’s hair and reaching for her hand. Kira’s eyelashes were fluttering, and she was mumbling something about biology. Now that Malia’s vision had cleared enough to see most of Kira, she grimaced at the lack of healing. Other than the bite, that spanned from the bottom of Kira’s ribs to her hip bones, her entire right side was burned and blistered, from her cheekbones to her knee. Her fingers trembled over the hilt of her sword, too cracked and swollen to curl around it properly. Malia was so caught up staring at the damage that she almost missed the black veins pulsing up Scott’s arm from where he gripped Kira’s hand.  
  
“Why are you taking her pain?” Malia demanded, frowning at the blistered and splotched skin _covering_  Scott’s chest and arms, interrupted by gouges and torn muscle. “You’re already really hurt.”  
  
“My mom once told me that people can black out from the shock of pain,” Scott said. “I… don’t know what’ll happen if she falls unconscious, so we need to keep her awake until we get her to the hospital.” He gave her a soft smile. “It’s okay. The pain’s not that bad."  
  
“Don’t take Main Street,” Braeden said, pulling off some weird pair of goggles sitting on top of her head and tossing them into the bag she swung off her shoulder. “The police scanner has been blowing up all morning. They’ll be clogging traffic for blocks. I’m taking the long way back."  
  
“Where are you going?” Scott snapped. “You’re coming with us!”  
  
Braeden snorted. “I’m not paid to babysit you. I was paid to get that thing out of your way,” she gestured towards the burnt and flattened brush behind her. “Now that’s done, and I’m going to clean up and go home.”  
  
“You need to help us!” Scott said. He had gingerly picked Kira up, but his knees were unsteady enough that Malia levered herself upright and braced herself up against his weak side. His phone was ringing again, but he ignored it.  
  
“How?” Braeden rolled her eyes. “I can’t carry her on my bike any more than you can on yours. Steal a car or something."  
  
“Kira’s _dying_ ,” Scott snarled. Malia frowned. Scott’s eyes were the sort of red that she’d be staying well away from, if she weren’t helping him hold up Kira and trying to ignore the sword handle jamming into her ribs. If it weren’t for that, she’d be _far_  away from him and the anger that seeped out of him. “She's dying because Peter _blinded_  us and abandoned us to fight that thing!"  
  
“He probably saved your life,” Braeden said, digging in her pocket for a bit before pulling out more bullets and dropping them into the chamber. “I was told not to look directly at it. Apparently that’s how it kills.”  
  
“Do you know what it is?” Malia asked. What  _is_  it with mysterious people in the middle of the woods giving vague information? No wonder she kept to the far side of the forest as a coyote. She probably had some instinctive drive to avoid all of these lunatics.  
  
“Nope,” Braeden said. “I don’t need to. I just need to know how many shots it takes to kill it.” She jerked her chin at Kira. “She’ll be fine. It looks like she’s got something like belladonna poisoning. Pump her full of opium, and she’ll hold until you figure out the cure. Besides, there’s a jeep coming up the road, so you can flag it down for a ride."  
  
Malia frowned. She didn’t hear anything that sounded like a car, and Braeden’s scars make it pretty obvious that she wasn’t a werewolf with werewolf healing. But when Scott turned, tilting his head and listening, relief seeped into his face. “Stiles!”  
  
Malia snapped her head around at the sudden roar of an engine behind her, but there was no point in saying anything. Braeden had already kicked off on her bike, rumbling across the clearing to the dirt road, as far away as possible from the bloody and burned people watching her go.  
_________________  
  
  
Lydia shoved herself upright, grave dirt and blades of grass tumbling from her hair, gasping for breath like she had been drowning. The cold air had sunk in enough to make her joints ache, and she scrambled to her feet, doing a quick check for hypothermia. Shivering, yes, but _still_  shivering, which was promising. Stiff, but not clumsy, and already settling her limbs into the posture drilled into her from years of ballet. No drowsiness, no confusion. Lydia turned back towards Allison’s gravestone, bright and polished in the sharp morning light. She _couldn’t_  be drowsy. Her mind was reverberating with an onslaught of information, a swirl of memories and theories from _everything_  that had happened last night crowding for attention. She needed hours, maybe days, to sort through all of this and create the first effective game plan she’s had since she’d realized she was something more than human.  
  
But not right now. Right now, people were about to die. She could hear it, a particular type of silence that blanketed the whispers of the graves around her. The ticking, the one that had been driving her mad all day yesterday, wasn’t a countdown, and wasn’t recent. She was finally able to make sense of it after she had hit the houngan drum last night, the beat of sound reverberating out around her, stopping at the outer edges of the ticking at the edge of her hearing. The ticking wasn’t a clock. It was the sound of a mechanism, some sort of safeguard that surrounded the whole city. Lydia had no idea how it was in place, or what it was safeguarding Beacon Hills _from_ , but she knew that’s what it was as certainly as she knew the death that surrounded her.  
  
And now it was gone.  
  
She dropped back down to her knees, scooping up the drum and sliding it into her bag with one hand even as she pulled down her phone and hit speed dial with the other. As she impatiently listened through the rings, Lydia looked up at the grey granite in front of her, reaching out to run her fingers over the chiseled letters.  
  
“Thank you, Allison,” she murmured. “Thank you.”  
  
She heard the click. “Lydia? Now is seriously the _worst_  time ––“  
  
“Stiles?” Lydia hadn’t even realized that she was on the edge of panic until she caught the strain of of Stiles’s voice on the other end. She knew her voice was too high, too sharp, but dealing with that was not a priority. She was cold and nearly overwhelmed, and how she sounded could _wait_. “Stiles, something’s wrong.”  
  
“Lydia, what’s wrong?”   
  
Lydia levered herself back up to her feet, scooping up her bag and the silver arrow, and spinning to start the sprint to her car. “I don’t _know_ , but something’s happening _right now_. It’s big, and I think it’s going to hit… everywhere. All over Beacon Hills.”  
  
She could hear Stiles sucking in a breath. “Okay, Lydia? Lydia calm down. Take a deep breath and tell us where you are – we’ll come to you. Is there _anything_  that you can tell us that can help us figure out what this is?”  
  
Lydia stumbled to a stop in front of her car, trying not to wheeze air into her burning lungs as she smacked her car in frustration. No, she _couldn’t_  tell them, not without a summary of the _hours_  she spent last night figuring this out. She needed to say something that would get them moving _right now_. She hated misinformation, but she’d take it, if it meant that immediate action was what she got out of it.  
  
“I don’t know, Stiles,” she said. “I don’t know anything. It’s just… you know that countdown that I was hearing? The ticking? _It’s stopped_.”  
  
She finally pulled out her keys and pressed the unlock button. Over the sound of her climbing into her seat and sticking her key in the ignition, she could hear a muffled voice coming closer to the phone. Deaton?  
  
“Lydia?” Not Deaton, the Sheriff. “If you don’t need us to come to you, tell us where to go. I can get a fleet of squad cars on the road in five.”  
  
“No!” Lydia snapped, blinking away the sight of a bloody man in a uniform, a crumpled and crayoned paper falling from his pockets, from behind her eyelids. “One of you deputies will die if he’s anywhere near this. I.. I don’t know which one, but they can’t be part of this. But I have _no idea_  where he shouldn’t be!” There was _so much_  in her head right now. She should have every right to smack something about the mess of images and sounds right now. She curled her hand into a fist in her lap and squeezed her eyes shut.  
  
“Lydia, listen to me,” she could hear the Sheriff’s voice in her ear. “I don’t have a freakin’ clue what you have to be processing to know this, but I want you to trust yourself to figure it out. Ignore all your distractions, ignore us, just focus on what you need to know. You can do it, you can point us in the right direction."  
  
 _“I can point you in the right direction, just a little bit.”_  
  
Lydia’s eyes popped open as she gasped. The voice, _Allison’s_  voice, was so clear that she almost spun in her seat to look for another person in her car. But it was a memory, an echo from last night that jumped up, sharp and insistent at the Sheriff’s words. Slowly, she lifted her fisted hand up, staring at the silver arrow she clutched in it. She didn’t even remember picking it up this morning.  
  
“I can,” she murmured. “I can tell you where to go.” How else would Allison point her in the right direction? Lydia ran her thumb over the sharp tip of the arrow, blinking away the sudden blur in her vision. “Please,” she whispered. “Help me. Just one more time.”  
  
“Lydia? Just tell us how you need our help. We can be there.” She could faintly hear Stiles’s voice in her ear, but she barely noticed it. She was focused on the faint tremor running through the arrow twitching against her knuckles. “Lydia?"  
  
“Stiles! Let me concentrate!” She snapped. She swallowed, flattening out her hand so that her fingers were out of the way, holding out her arm so the shaft wouldn’t clip the dash. She held her breath for one moment, two. _Please_ , she thought. _Please_. Then, _then_ , the arrow began to shift, jerking side to side like a compass needle. It turned in her palm nearly a full 120º, twitching for a moment at the join of her thumb, pausing for a full second as it pointed towards the woods of the preserve, before coming to a full stop, aiming at a spot ahead and to the left of where Lydia was facing.  
  
She carefully bit her bottom lip, pulling up a mental map of Beacon Hills in her mind. The way her car was parked meant that what was ahead of her would exclude anything in the south half of town – so not the school, the hospital, the bank, or city hall. The arrow didn’t follow the curve of the road, but it was pointing towards the general area where it joined the main street. But there was nothing there. Just deli, that gym that no one goes to, and a small coffee shop.  
  
And the police station.  
  
“The station?” The Sheriff muttered a curse. “It’s on the other side of town from here. I can call it in, but I won’t get there for at least fifteen minutes. How long do we got?”  
  
Lydia shook her head. “Ten. If that.” She reached toward the passenger seat to drop the arrow and grab her keys. “I’m just down the road. I can get there first.”  
  
“Lydia! What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Stiles snapped. “You can’t fight some unknown monster by yourself!”  
  
“I know who’s going to die Stiles,” Lydia said. “And I can save them. That’s enough. But ––” She paused and looked back down at her hand, still holding the arrow. Did it just shock her? She pulled her fingers from the arrow and rubbed them in front of her face, trying to figure out if it was just part of her imagination. But as she rubbed her thumb over their tips, she was overwhelmed by the smell of… rubbing alcohol? Not nail polish remover, but hand sanitizer. And…latex. She smelled of sanitation and gloves and ––  
  
“The hospital,” she said. “Stiles, you need to get to the hospital right now. No, wait.” The arrow in her seat had rolled, pointing back towards the woods. Why? There should be no one out at the preserve except for –– “Scott! You need to get _Scott_  to the hospital. He’s at the preserve, and he can’t leave. And…” Lydia frowned. The shock wasn’t part of her imagination. “And you’ll need electricity. Lots of it."  
  
She probably didn’t make any sense, and she figured Stiles would say exactly that. But he didn’t. He just gave a sharp exhale. “Okay. Okay. Dad’s already on his way, and Derek’s calling Scott right now. Just… be safe, Lydia."  
  
Lydia hung up, and threw her phone into the passenger seat, hearing it clunk into the arrow. She didn’t have time for careful. She had just enough time to get to the police station to stop whatever was coming.  
  
Something big was hitting Beacon Hills.  
  
And this time, Lydia could do something about it.  
  
***  
  
 _“Trust Scott, Lydia,” Allison’s voice said. “It’s okay. He can help you.”_  
  
Lydia knew exactly how to command attention by walking in the room. She knew how to use the tilt of her hips and the lift of her nose to get every eye on her. And she knew exactly how to square her shoulders and narrow her eyes just enough to make sure that no one in the room questioned a word she said.  
  
“This station is going to be under attack,” she said, striding through the doors of the station and storming straight up to the main desk. “And you need to do everything I tell you to do so that we can both stop a lot of innocent people from dying."  
  
The officer behind the desk raised his eyebrows. “Is that a threat?"  
  
“Do I look like the kind of person capable of holding up an entire police station?” Lydia snapped, placing her hands on her hips and pressing her fingers into the bone. She probably could, if she’d wanted to. People trained to respond to armed thugs were rarely prepared for teenagers in designer skirts. “Pay attention. My name is Lydia Martin, and if you don’t listen to me, the Beacon Hills Police Department will become the scene of _another_  bizarre and unfortunate tragedy. If the Sheriff hasn’t called you about me yet, he will."  
  
Lydia tapped her foot. The problem with commanding attention is that everyone was so distracted that it took them forever to _process_  everything. At least the deputy didn’t seem too brainless. Young, but not as young as he looked, and probably old for his age. “Miss,” he said, "if you are reporting an emergency, I will absolutely listen. But falsely claiming the authority of the local Sheriff is ––"  
  
“Uh, Parish?” An older officer, frowning, had tapped him on the shoulder. He held out a phone receiver. “Got the Sheriff on the line for you. Says it’s a high priority."  
  
Lydia let the smugness visibly curl her lips, even as she curled her fingers into her folded arms to stop herself from throttling someone in impatience. Panic was never the route to convince someone of her authority, but she needed everyone to hurry up and be convinced, already.  
  
“…I… uh, yes, Sheriff.” The deputy, Parish, flicked his gaze back to her. “Yeah, she’s here.” He blinked. “What, _anything_? But sir, she’s –“ he winced, pulling the receiver away from his ear enough that Lydia could hear the snapping voice of a man who’s already had too long of a day. “Understood, sir.” He hung up, licking his lips before turning to the officer who gave him the phone. “Maguire, get everyone in not on patrol. The Sheriff has issued a demand for an Emergency Response to a reported threat of attack against the station. We’re to treat the threat as hostile, and use deadly force if necessary. He’s getting here as fast as he can, and he says in the meantime, full authority in dealing with the hostile entity should fall to, uh, Miss Martin here. _No questions_."  
  
Well, then. That was pretty convincing. Complete responsibility over everything that was sure to go wrong was exactly what she wanted, right?  
  
Lydia swallowed. Straightened up. And turned to the officers starting to gather around her. “All right. It’s still unclear what the nature of the attack will be, but whatever it is will be on a warpath, and it’s not going bother dodging any civilians along the way. I need some of you to go out and shut down Main Street right _now_. Get everyone out of the way of potentially getting killed.” She paused, pressing her lips together. It’s not just civilians that need to be out of harm’s way. “Everyone empty your pockets.”  
  
“ _What_?” Maguire said, shaking his head. “You haven’t even told us who’s going to be attacking. What does it have to do with the crap in our pockets?"  
  
“Are you going to waste time, or are you going to listen to me?” Lydia snapped. “I don’t know what it is, but I know it’ll be just as bad as anything that’s hit this station in the last year. And I need to know who will be best inside here fighting it off and who needs to be be outside _saving the lives of innocent bystanders_. So _empty your pockets_."  
  
“Do it,” Parish said, turning his head slightly to speak to Maguire, but not taking his eyes off of Lydia. The baffled confusion he had at her entrance was long gone, replaced with a look of careful, meticulous appraisal. “Do exactly what she says.”  
  
Lydia licked her lips as, muttering, all the deputies pulled out whatever was in their pockets before heading over. There was a lot of lint, some paperclips, tins of mints, and gum wrappers. There were a few grocery lists, but only two pieces of paper covered in crayon doodles. Good enough. She’ll throw in one of the older officers, too close to retirement, just to be safe. “Collins, Cooper, and Eddings. Get outside. Close the nearby shops, shut down the streets. Get everyone out of here. Go!”  
  
They ran off, and Lydia turned to remaining officers. She was well-read, but the tactical strategy of law enforcement was never as interesting as a dead language or an algebraic topology. Even if she did know, she was aware enough to understand that the strategy was entirely dependent on know what the enemy was.  
  
“Would you like us in offensive of defensive positions?” Parish asked softly.  
  
 _You can’t do what I do, Lydia, but you can think how I think_. For a tiny flash of a moment, Lydia could almost see a wave of brown hair, or the corner of a wide smile, flick out of the corner of our eye, and she sucked in half a gasp in understanding. She wasn’t trying to _arrest_  whatever was attacking.  
  
She was trying to hunt it.  
  
“Defensive,” she said, absolutely confident. “Attacks won’t do anything other than make it angry. And your guns won’t work. At best, we need a way to trap it until we can neutralize it. Move all the desks to create a pen. Make sure the windows are inaccessible. You two: go get any tranquilizers and large restraints you can get your hands on."  
  
“How do you know the guns won’t work?” Maguire grunted. “Lying when you said you didn’t know who’s attacking?"  
  
“ _No_ ,” she said, for the _last time_. “Because guns _never_  work."  
  
And that was when she first heard the screech.  
  
It was sharper than she thought it would be. She was used to the roars and growls of wolves, but this was avian, not mammalian. Similar to the cry of a hawk. Only much, _much_  larger.  
  
Lydia slowly let her eyes drag up to the ceiling of the station. She could see it, completely whole and structurally sound, but she could _hear_  the roof giving way – the groan of beams buckling under more weight than they could bear, the sharp snap of cables snagged and pulled out of their place.  
  
“It’s attacking from above,” she gasped. “Everyone move! _Move_!”  
  
She was still staring at the ceiling, mesmerized by the the splinter of stucco and bulging surface trying not to give way, when she was tackled by Parish, who rolled as they landed to protect Lydia from the suddenly falling dust and debris. The crash of falling wreckage around them was drowned out, though, by an even louder screeching, piercing her ears and drilling straight into her brain. There was also a heavy _swoosh_  of air that swept over them, again and again, pressing them into the floor and sweeping up the dust in thick clouds. Lydia coughed, dazed, and squinted through watery eyes to see a feather the size of her entire arm beside her on the floor.  
  
There was another screech, and this time Parish had stumbled upright enough to pull Lydia up and haul her behind a desk.  
  
“Were you expecting that?” he demanded.  
  
Lydia shook her head. “Trust me: this is definitely new.”  
  
She coughed again, scrubbing the grit from her eyes, and suddenly thankful that she had already cried off the majority of her make-up last night. She needed to see what it was. She couldn’t hide forever. This wasn’t the worst that she had faced. She _needed_  to look.  
  
Lydia sucked in a deep, dusty breath, and craned her head out from behind the desk.  
  
It _was_  a bird, one too large to fit into the station even through the hole it had crashed through the roof. All Lydia could see was its lower half, the single wing that it had managed to squeeze inside – sweeping huge gusts of air that knocked down any nearby deputies – and a swirl of gigantic feathers floating through the air in a riot of bright colours, the blues and reds and yellows making the chaos seem almost festive. Lydia could catch glimpses of the ducking and twisting neck as a giant beak snapped at the edges of the holes in the roof, pulling at the wood and plaster in an attempt to make the hole big enough for it to get its head inside. There was a row of officers across the room carefully aiming pathetically small tranquilizers at the bird’s chest. It didn’t look like many shots landed through the thick shield of feathers, and the ones that did only made it writhe and screech, heavy talons crushing a desk to fragments and causing a wooden nameplate with COOPER on it to go bouncing across the floor.  
  
“I think she’s a female,” Parish said beside Lydia, looking over the desk at the disaster. His gun was out of his holster, pointed low to the ground, even though it was pretty obvious that it’d do him no good.  
  
Lydia looked at him, frowning. “How can you tell?"  
  
“I’m really good with birds,” he shrugged.  
  
“Then that doesn’t make sense!” Lydia shook her head, ducking as the bird pulled off another piece of ceiling and sent it flying over their heads. “Birds are not carnivorous, and only males attack for territory. The only reason she would be attacking people would be to protect her offspring, and we would have noticed more of _those_  around town!"  
  
Parish blinked, then turned to stare at her, blue eyes wide in realization. “There are eggs in the evidence locker!”  
  
Lydia turned to stare at him. “ _What_?”  
  
“Two truck drivers were killed yesterday,” Parish said, stance shifted, scanning the room for something other than the giant bird occupying the centre of it. “There was no sign of the attacker, but it obviously wanted at whatever they were shipping. The entire vehicle was torn to shreds, metal and all.” He licked his lips, levelled his gun over Lydia’s head at the swooping wing, and shot. “All the was left was a sealed lead box, with two huge eggs in it."  
  
Lydia knew enough about physics to know that the shot should have been impossible. The wing was moving too fast, creating too much wind and filling the room with too much debris for a clear line of sight. And yet, she saw a single feather snap off in a bright bloom of blood. The bird gave a sharp screech, stopping its barrage on the ceiling to yank the full wing in close to its body, and clearing the way for Lydia to see, at the opposite end of the room, a door marked EVIDENCE.  
  
“Why didn’t you go for a body shot?” Lydia asked, even as Parish grabbed her wrist and began a sprint to another desk a few feet away.  
  
“It wouldn’t work. And I didn’t want to clip a pinion feather. I just wanted her to move her wing. The shot probably felt like a bug bite."  
  
Encouraged by the bird’s recoil, two of the officers ran out from their covers, peppering it with gunshots along its neck and breast. Lydia felt Parish flinch beside her before launching himself over the desk, hands out, trying to shout over the squawks.  
  
“No! Stop! Major injuries will only provoke atta––“  
  
“ _GET DOWN!"_  
  
Lydia was halfway standing, about to reach over and grab the _idiot_  who somehow thought “defensive maneuvers” involved jumping out from _behind protective cover_ , when the scream ripped out of her. She barely even had a moment to process what she had even done before the giant wing snapped out again. It took Parish nearly tackling her again to crash her to the floor in time to avoid the wall of wind that _fwooshed_  over her as the wing swept over the room. Still caught by a bit of wind, he tumbled a few feet further as Lydia tried to get her bearings. To her left, she heard a sharp shout, in a voice that sounded like Maguire’s, and the heavy thud of a body hitting a wall.  
  
Lydia's body had sucked in the breath before she really understood why, an entirely different scream pressing into her throat in a build-up that she never wanted to be so familiar with. But then, like a sudden flood of lethargy, she felt her vocal chords relax and the pressing, anxious need to shriek dissipate like smoke.  
  
“…Lydia? Lydia, are you all right?” Parish had his hands on her shoulders, brows furrowed, scanning her face for any sign of injury.  
  
Lydia blinked up at him. “He’s alive. He’s not okay, but he’s not going to die."  
  
 _You did that, Lydia. You’re the one that saved him._  
  
Parish let his eyes relax into a small smile. “Maguire is made of pretty solid stuff,” he said, as if he couldn’t hear the proud voice in Lydia’s ear. “Come on,” he added. “We need to hurry. If we can get her the eggs, she’ll leave!”  
  
“There’s _no way to know that_ ,” Lydia hissed, but he was already grabbing for his radio.  
  
“Officers! Stand down! I repeat, _stand down_! Do not shoot, do not attempt to restrain!” Parish coughed, squinting through the dust. “We have a plan to bait the hostile out of the building, but we need to get to the evidence room!”  
  
Lydia could see one of the other officers grab for his own radio. “On it, Parish! Keep your head down.”  
  
She didn’t catch exactly what happened, but when a new shot cracked out, it wasn’t aimed at the bird. The bullet smashed into one of the remaining overheard lights, snapping out enough popping sparks that the bird was startled into recoiling its wing again. It wasn’t as much as the last time, but Lydia saw a glimpse of a clear path to the Evidence room once again.  
  
“Now!” Parish shouted. “She’s distracted, we have to _go_!” He took off at a dead sprint for the door, and Lydia was suddenly a lot less confident in her ability to launch a tactical attack in a skirt and heels. But then she snapped her teeth together and pushed herself up after him. Because Lydia couldn’t do anything like that, but Allison could.  
  
She actually nearly tripped over one of those _damned stupid feathers_ , and if it weren’t for an officer’s well-timed distraction, she would have been battered right in the back by the weeping wing. But she skidded up to the Evidence room door just as Parish had crashed it open, letting herself be pulled when he spun to grab her arm.  
  
Parish hauled her down to the floor beside him, giving a quick check into the main lobby of the station before slamming the door shut and pulling off his radio. He pressed it into her hands with a smile too uncomfortably confident for the gravity of the situation. “Here! Command the troops – I know you can do this. I’ll get the eggs.”  
  
Lydia sucked in a breath and stared at the radio in her hands. The curl of horror in her throat was nearly enough to make her throw the thing at Parish’s disappearing back. She was here to _save_  lives, not order innocent people into facing down the monster. She couldn’t do this.  
  
Then the radio crackled in her hand, and Lydia realized that she didn’t really have a choice. “Parish!” The voice was thin and tired, nearly a grunt. “Parish, what’s your status? Did you get that bait of yours?”  
  
Lydia raised the radio, licked her lips, and clicked the button. “Parish is retrieving it right now. We have to have a plan of attack ready for the second he gets it. I need a status report on all of you, and on the bird."  
  
“Big Bird’s stuck and squawking everyone deaf, but we’re all out of attack range,” a voice responded back. "I give it maybe ten more minutes until it takes out the rest of the ceiling, though. No one can see worth a damn, and we’re all pretty buffeted, but no fatalities. A few injuries, and one officer down, but he’s stable and out of the way. All in all, everyone’s still alive.”  
  
“Good,” Lydia said. “We’re keeping it that way.” She needed to think. She needed to solve the puzzle, find the strategy that would get this bird out of here and keep everyone safe. “Get everyone you can out of the building right now. I need as many able bodies on the outside as possible right now, and people will just stay hurt if they stay in here with the angry bird.” That was a lie. She had no idea what they could do outside the station to fix this, but at least it got them out of harm’s way. She didn’t even know how to get the bird out of the building. With only one wing stuck inside, it’s not like it could fly away, even if she and Parish did get it the eggs. And no matter how confident the deputy was, Lydia was not yet willing to believe that it’d just soar off into the sunset. “Collins? Still out there? Have you evacuated the area?”  
  
“Yes ma’am,” Collins said. “Emptied out all the business, and blocked off the street for ten blocks in either direction. Told ‘em there was a gas leak. Is that good enough?”  
  
Lydia blinked. That… actually was a pretty effective way to get a giant bird out of a building. “Good,” she said. “I need as much clearance as possible. We’re going to blast out the front wall. The one facing Main Street."  
  
“Nice thought,” a different voice on the radio crackled back. “But it’s not like we have C4 in our back pockets over here.”  
  
Lydia pressed her lips together. Of course they wouldn’t. “Get outside and give me a minute.” She clicked off her radio. _Think_. “Parish!” she called. “What kind of explosives do you have in here?”  
  
She heard the creaking noise of the crate stop. Parish stuck his head out from behind one of the shelves. “Are you serious right now?”  
  
It took every single ounce of Lydia’s will power to not roll her eyes. “Yeah, I’m just asking for a friend. Do I need to go looking for them myself?”  
  
Parish’s head disappeared for a moment. “No,” he shouted, “because my bomb squad captain would murder if I let a teenager fiddle with explosive materials, no matter how competent you are.” He walked back out, arms full. “But if you hold these, I can dig some up for you.”  
  
The eggs were _huge_ , as large as Thanksgiving turkeys and easily twenty pounds each. Lydia stood as Parish carefully placed one in each of her arms, in no way prepared for how unmatched they felt. The larger one, in mottled browns and green, seemed impenetrable, dense in a way that the smaller one, covered in swirls of blue and soft grey, seemed too fragile to mimic.  
  
“I’m being obvious, but be careful with these,” Parish said. “We need her to know that these eggs have never been in any danger.”  
  
“We’ll keep it away from the explosives, then,” Lydia said, head tilted, eyebrows raised. “Which you should be getting right now.”  
  
“I’m trained to _disarm_  bombs,” Parish said. “Not make them.”  
  
“I’m sure some of those skills are transferrable,” Lydia snapped. “That thing will just flap around until the building collapses if we don’t get it out, and it’ll just get angrier by the minute. You blow out the front wall of the station so it can get out, and the noise of the blast should scare it off in case just getting the eggs back doesn’t make it as contrite as you’re convinced it will.”  
  
Parish pressed his lips together. “And what are we doing with the eggs?”  
  
“I’m taking them to the grocer’s across the street.” Lydia said. "It’s a clear line of sight from the front of the station, and their parking lot backs out into a clearing. If the eggs are there, the flight plan to get them is the shortest direct line away from city property.”  
  
“Are you insane?” Parish shook his head. “That bird has _slaughtered_  full grown men for those eggs! You can’t just go out there alone.”  
  
“Either give me the eggs, or give me the explosives.” Lydia narrowed her eyes in the way she does when she _knows_  there’s no argument. “You can’t do both in the time we have left. I _will not_ let you get anyone else killed trying to keep me safe.”  
  
The deputy was looking at her, studying her. It wasn’t the idiotic looks of understanding people gave her when they presumed insight beyond her superficial high school masks. It was the look of someone trained to read people, to catch the meanings behind the words that weren’t suppose to slip out. Lydia clenched her back teeth together and refused to drop her gaze. If he could read her, fine. She was still going to win this argument.  
  
Parish gave a quick sigh, and nodded sharply. “Fine. But put the eggs down in the clearing – not on the pavement – and _get out of there_. There’s no point in saving everyone else’s life if you die before they can thank you.”  
  
Lydia felt her face go slack for a surprised moment before she composed it with firm resolution. “Good. Grab the radio. We need to get everyone in position.”  
  
The Sheriff pulled up as Lydia was carefully making her way across the street, the eggs heavy in her arms. He got a quick rundown of the plan while Parish was setting the explosives, over the sounds of muffled thrashing and shrieking, before coming over to Lydia and gently taking the brown egg from her.  
  
“You’re not doing this alone,” he said, marching towards the grocer’s before Lydia even had the chance to swallow past the sudden thickness in her throat and reply.  
  
They only got to the edge of the parking lot before the Sheriff’s radio crackled, echoing the sudden crashing and yelling in the street behind them. “Sheriff! The bird just took out the rest of the roof and part of of the south wall! Do you still want us to go through with the explosives?”  
  
The Sheriff cursed, as he and Lydia stared at each other. He grabbed for his radio. “We’re almost in place. Be ready to detonate in thirty seconds and _get the hell out of the way_.”  
  
This time they ran, as quickly as they could while trying not to jostle the eggs. They hit the clearing just as Parish called the ten second warning, and a few feet in, the Sheriff pulled Lydia to a stop.  
  
“This is good enough,” he said. “We need to drop these things and _run_."  
  
Lydia was in no way interested in arguing. She and the Sheriff carefully put the eggs down and were barely five feet away before the snapping sound of static came from the radio one last time.  
  
“Fire in the hole!”  
  
Lydia didn’t hear the explosion. She thought she could feel it, rumbling up through her feet and lodging in a sharp pain just above her hip. But what she heard instead was the roar of a motorcycle driving away, the clink of a thin sword falling on grass and stone, the roar of an Alpha werewolf. She could faintly smell spoiled meat and sulphuric acid, under the sharper scent of blood and sweat. Lydia had never been able to hear heartbeats, but she _knew_ , with absolute certainty, that she could sense a heart clogged down with poison, slowing to a stop.   
  
“Lydia? Lydia, c’mon girl, stay with me…”  
  
What she could see was fading by the minute, nothing more than a grey fog and a dull outline of the Sheriff’s terrified face.   
  
 _Lydia. Lydia, you did it_.  
  
The voice was closer than the cloudy one the Sheriff was using to call her. This one was softer, proud. Familiar.  
  
 _You helped me. You got me here._  
  
 _You need to learn to do this by yourself, Lydia_.  
  
If she could have felt panic, Lydia would have panicked. _No! Please, no. I can’t do this without you! I can’t… I can’t make sense of everything without your help_!  
  
 _Other people can help. You can let others in to help you_.  
  
There wasn’t enough of Lydia to glare, just fog and faint sounds of birds and wind.  
  
 _I’ve already had someone in my head once, Allison. It didn’t help anything_.  
  
 _It’s different if you willingly let people in. You can trust him to help you_.  
  
 _Who_?  
  
 _You were amazing today, Lydia. You can do this. You can be a person who saves lives._  
  
Allison’s voice was fading, drowning in the bright sunlight that was cutting into Lydia’s clouded vision. She could hear more now, sirens and shouting and voices right above her. But she could hear one other thing, a memory, from the time she had travelled deep into Stiles’s head to help set him free.  
  
 _“What do werewolves do to call their pack, Scott?” she had asked, her voice faintly echoing against the distant white walls_.  
  
 _Scott had turned to her, beamed in a way that had filled Lydia with so much faith and pride, and said, “they roar.”_  
  
“…there she is,” the Sheriff said softly. “Lydia? You with us again?”  
  
Lydia blinked, then squeezed her eyes shut at the bright sunlight. The Sheriff’s face was above, his hand checking her pulse on her neck.  
  
“Wh… what happened?” she croaked out.  
  
“To you? No idea,” the Sheriff shrugged with a recognizable expression of baffled incomprehension that Lydia had to smile weakly. “Just collapsed, and muttered something about burns. That giant bird’s long gone, though. Other than the fact that we were a lot closer than I would have liked when it did its flyby, your plan worked perfectly. The wall came down, it came straight for the eggs, and just flew off into the trees. Didn’t even look at the officers on the way. Not a scratch on anyone.” He snorted. “Can’t say as much about the station, though. Our budget’s pretty much a goner, now."  
  
“No one died,” Lydia said, her voice nearly a whisper, her eyes wide. She could tell, deep in her bones, that she was right.  “I saved them. I did it. I saved them all.”  
  
The Sheriff nodded, a soft smile on his face. “Yeah, you really did. I don’t care what anyone says about the station. We’re counting this as a good day.”  
  
“And, as a bonus,” Parish said, walking up and thankfully blocking the sun. “You now have a dozen police officers who owe you a favour.” He crouched down, forcing Lydia to blink into the sunlight again, and placed her purse down beside her. “The paramedics want to check you before one of us takes you home, though, so I checked your car and grabbed your purse for you."  
  
Lydia frowned. Things were too bright, too dazing. “What about my arrow?” She asked. Her vision was clear but things were still…cloudy. “My silver arrow. On the seat.”  
  
Parish’s eyebrows lifted, before he exchanged a confused glance with the Sheriff. “Uh, sorry. There wasn’t any arrows in the car. I would have seen it."  
  
Lydia shook her head, squinting in confusion. “What?” She had left it in on the passenger seat, right beside her purse.  
  
“Don’t worry about it right now,” the Sheriff said gently. “Just rest for a minute. We’ll get you checked out, and then we can find this arrow of yours."  
  
“But it was right on the seat…” Lydia raised her hand to rub at her head, dizzier than she thought she would be. “It’s there. You couldn’t… couldn’t miss it,” she murmured, feeling her eyes drift closed.  
  
_________________  
  
Kira woke up to 1,500 volts of electricity rocketing through her body, and it felt _amazing_.   
  
It was like taking five energy drinks and being told she had won a million dollars and going on a roller coaster and being on the back of Scott’s motorcycle _all at the same time_. Kira probably sat upright really quickly, because there was an IV beside her that looked like it had been just pulled out of the bloody spot on her arm, but she couldn’t feel it if it had. Her skin was _humming_  and the colours in the room around her were a lot brighter, and for a tiny moment, she couldn’t even feel the throb of her burns or the aching bite in her side. She felt like she was glowing, a ball of pure energy, crackling and sparking and ready to light up a city block.  
  
Stiles was standing beside the bed she was in, drumming his fingers against each other in front of his face. Malia was leaning forward so that her elbows were propped up against the foot of the bed, head tilted in curiosity. Derek was behind them both, arms folded, frowning uncertainly. To her left, Mrs. McCall was standing, defibrillator still in her hands, scanning Kira’s face and looking a lot like she really regretted what she had just done.  
  
So Kira, wide-eyed and breathless, waved her hand at the defibrillator with a stunned but enthusiastic nod. “ _Again_!”  
  
She ended up asking for three more after the second one, before Mrs. McCall explained that the defibrillator wasn’t really equipped to handle much beyond that.  
  
“That’s okay,” Kira said, and tried not to sound too wistful at the loss. She could probably keep doing this all afternoon. And every day for the next year. “I think that’s enough for now. I feel a lot better.”  
  
Actually, she felt fantastic. Like, _really_  fantastic. Her head wasn’t just alive and buzzing, it was totally clear, completely different from the sluggish confusion that had been seeping into her ever since that monster had bitten her. And she could breathe now without her stomach and her lungs and her throat feeling like they were pressed up against a thousand needles, pushing up against her every time she moved. And her skin…  
  
Slowly, Kira brought up her free hand to run cautious fingers over the bandages covering her neck, dragging a few drops of blood from her IV hole across the blankets covering her. She swallowed. She knew she was burned, and could remember as clear as day the excruciating hiss of her skin and muscles dissolving. But beneath the gauze, she felt whole. Tender, but completely whole. She was tired, but in the way she felt whenever she got a fever and she’d wake up the morning that it finally broke: exhausted, but with the weird satisfaction of knowing that her body had overcome something debilitating.  
  
She reached down to carefully grab the corner of the bandages covering her entire arm.  Kira squeezed her eyes shut as she pulled the bandages back. For all she knew, the electricity could have just numbed her senses, and she’d still be a mess of really gross – and really permanent – injury.   
  
“…Wow,” Mrs. McCall said softly.  
  
Kira let her eyes drift open to stare at her arm. It was really _pink_ , and a little itchy, but it was completely unscathed. There were no blisters, no peeling, bubbling splotches of red and black, no cold draft of air on exposed tendons and bone. Her arm was exactly like her arm had been when she had woken up this morning, and in half an hour, she probably wouldn’t even have been able to tell that anything had happened to her.   
  
“I did it,” Kira said, trying to blink through the realization. “I healed myself!” Was this what it was like, when Scott and Derek walked away from a battle, beaten and bloody but confident that everything would be fine by the next morning?  
  
“Well,” Mrs. McCall said, her lips tugging upward, despite the professional set of her shoulders. “A large part of that healing also came from the hospital’s power bills, but you _are_  looking a lot better."  
  
“Dude,” Stiles said. “Electricity _does_  heals you. That is _awesome_.”  
  
Kira grinned. “I know, right?”  
  
And just like that, Mrs. McCall’s tiny smile vanished, the upward tilt of her lips suddenly pointing really, really far down. “Stiles, I agreed to do this because you said it was a sure thing.”  
  
Stiles, who was reaching over to high five Kira, yanked his hand behind his back and spun to face Mrs. McCall. He widened his eyes and shrugged, his mouth stretched into a smile that was mostly innocent but kind of terrifying. “It was a _pretty_  sure thing?”  
  
“It’s okay,” Kira said, and Mrs. McCall turned to her. “Really. That was… fantastic. Like… something I never knew I needed until I actually got it."  
  
“You actually healed faster than most wolves I’ve seen,” Derek said. Kira wasn’t the best at reading his expression, but he seemed… more drawn into himself than normal, tightening his arms around himself like he could somehow hold himself together. “I think if you had enough electricity, you’d heal instantaneously."  
  
“Kitsunes are weird,” Malia announced, scrunching up her face. “You’d  _never_  survive in the wild."  
  
Kira had to admit, it wasn’t the most reliable plan for recovery, but it was _definitely_  better than nothing. She started reaching for all the other bandages, more than ready to have them off. If she had enough electricity, she might even be _invincible_. She could always fight by Scott’s side ––  
  
“Scott!” she burst out, wincing at how accidentally loud she was. “Where’s Scott? Is he okay?”  
  
“Yeah, he’s great, don’t worry,” Stiles said, turning away from where he had been frowning at Derek. “He’s just on the phone with Lydia, getting the details about the attack on the police station.”  
  
Kira blinked, halfway through tearing off the gauze taped to her neck. “What? The police station was under attack? When?”  
  
“This morning,” Mrs. McCall sighed. “Thankfully, there were no fatalities, but we have a few officers under observation two doors down."  
  
“Apparently it was a giant bird looking for its giant bird eggs,” Stiles supplied. “And sort of trying to murder people along the way."  
  
“Wow,” Kira said. “I must have been unconscious for a really long time.” The last thing she could recall were blurred bits and pieces from the fight in the clearing, sounds and smells and a vision that was already blurry by the time it came back to her.  
  
Malia snorted. “You weren’t. Not really. You blacked out a bit while we were getting you here, but you woke up when they gave the good pain killers and spent about two hours talking to me and Derek and Scott while Stiles tried to convince Scott’s mom to electrocute you."   
  
Kira nodded, then felt her eyes widen as she processed what exactly Malia was saying. “Oh my god.” She was weirdly light-headed, like her brain was a helium balloon getting filled with horror and mortification. She began contemplating how hard it would actually be to run out of the room. And Beacon Hills. “Oh my _god_.” She had _no_  memory of that, which was _not good in any way_. She could barely keep from embarrassing herself when she talked when she every single mental faculty working for her. She couldn’t even imagine what came out of her mouth when she was _drugged_. “What did I _say_?”  
  
Malia shrugged. “You on for a while about popcorn. And talked about why bubble baths were better than showers." She tilted her head. “You also spent a long time telling Scott that you were glad he could heal, because it’d be a shame if his attractive body was covered in scars. But that he’d probably still look really attractive with all the scars, because Scott’s body was a really attractive body."  
  
“ _Oh my god_.” Kira didn’t even bother pulling off the rest of the bandage. She just left it hanging off the side of her neck so she could cover her face with both her hands. “Guys, next time I do that, don’t worry about reviving me with electricity. Just lock me in a room somewhere so I can die in peace.”  
  
She felt a warm hand gently rest on her wrist, and Kira peeked out from behind her fingers. Mrs. McCall was reaching for the bandage that she had left half-peeled on her neck, but gave a soft pat on the way. “It’s okay,” she murmured, low enough that maybe only Malia could hear. “Scott’s biggest concern was about convincing you how pretty you still were if we couldn’t get the burns to heal.”  
  
Kira blinked, and let her fingers drop, even though she could feel the blood rushing right into her cheeks. “I…oh,” she whispered. “Did he really say that?”  
  
Mrs. McCall smiled.  
  
“Don’t worry,” Derek said, clearing his throat and shifting on his feet. “Most of the time, you were just talking about the things I could experience now that I’m mostly human. It was… really helpful.”  
  
“Wait. You’re a  _human_  now?” Kira lifted her head over Mrs. McCall’s arm to stare at Derek. He didn’t _look_  any different, though he did kind of twitch whenever a new page for the medical staff buzzed onto the speakers in the hall. “How?”  
  
“It was, uh, the only way,” Stiles said. “To stop Kate Argent from possessing Derek and making him attack us.”  
  
He gave an awkward shrug in Derek’s direction, but only got a stiff grunt in return.  
  
“And this all happened this morning?” Kira asked. This was getting kind of ridiculous. Beacon Hills is not really known for being quiet and uneventful, but it was never _this_  bad. “The thing with Peter and the monster at the preserve, the giant bird at the police station, and Kate?”  
  
“And another animal attack just east of Beacon Hills,” Mrs. McCall sighed. “Paramedics brought in two guys an hour ago who were nearly mauled to death. One of them is unconscious, but the other keeps babbling about a ‘blue cat monster’ to anyone who will listen.”  
  
Kira frowned. “Why is all of this happening at the same time? Why now?”  
  
“Lydia thinks that there was a barrier, or something, protecting Beacon Hills before,” Scott said as he came into the room. His eyes immediately went to Kira, who was still kind of warm in the face and suddenly _very_  aware of the really unflattering hospital gown she was in. But his eyes raked over her neck and arm, and Kira saw the stiff way he stood at the door kind of… lessen, a little. “She was saying that the ticking she heard was some sort of a mechanism that was keeping most of the supernatural out of town up until this morning."  
  
“Are you saying that we were living in the _safe_  Beacon Hills up until this point?” Stiles said, looking kind of like an affronted cat.  
  
Malia raised her eyebrows, looking up from where she was still hunched over the bed. “So when the ticking stopped…"  
  
“We came under an onslaught,” Derek said, and pressed his lips together.  
  
“It _can’t_  be a coincidence that this happened the same morning that Kate tried to hijack Derek’s brain,” Stiles said.  
  
Malia scowled. “ _Or_  some strange guy in the woods showing up to tell us about getting out of town.”  
  
Kira made a face at the memory. She had never seen Peter before this, but given what she’d heard from Stiles, and a little bit from Lydia, she didn’t expect him to be so… polished. He _was_  about as creepy as she figured he would be. “He _did_  say that thing about wanting to protect his interests before be blinded us."  
  
“Hold on,” Mrs. McCall said, pulling off the last of the bandages from Kira’s skin and carrying them over to a waste bin. "I thought Peter tried to kill Kate? Why would they be working together on this?"  
  
“I don’t think they would,” Derek said, glancing at Scott. “Peter never lets go of his grudges. If he knew Kate was still alive, he’d try to kill her again.”  
  
“Maybe they’re _not_  working together,” Stiles said, frowning. “Maybe they both just have access to the same information.”  
  
“So they knew about things like this barrier even though we didn’t?” Kira asked. “That doesn’t sound good for us.”  
  
“It doesn’t,” Scott said. He wasn’t looking at Kira anymore, but at the IV bag hanging above her shoulder. “And I can’t risk anyone getting hurt because we’re in the dark. We can’t just be scrambling to respond to every new threat the comes up. We need to get as many people together as possible and make a game plan.”  
  
Derek gave a firm nod. “When?”  
  
“Tonight,” Scott said. He glanced over at his mom, who nodded. “My place. Lydia says everyone at the police station is busy dealing with the explosion debris and getting statements sorted out, so I don’t think we can meet up any sooner than that.” Scott pulled out a napkin, covered in scribbles, from his pocket and handed it to Stiles. “Can you try and get everyone on this list to come?”  
  
Stiles frowned at the list. “I can try, man, but I can’t work miracles.” He flipped the napkin around to face Scott, and while Kira couldn’t read the names, she could see that there’s quite a few of them. “You realize you have Chris Argent on here?”  
  
“I know, it’s a long shot,” Scott said. “But we have to try. We need all the help we can get. And, uh,” Scott’s gaze flicked over to Kira and his mom for a second before landing back on Stiles. “Lydia wants you, me, and Derek to meet up with her a couple of hours before. Just the four of us.”  
  
Kira looked down, rubbing her thumb over the dried blood on her arm. It’s not like she was jealous or anything. She wasn’t. She’s just… kind of bummed out that she wasn’t able to be there from the beginning, the way Lydia and Scott and Stiles and Derek were. She totally gets that it would have been super dangerous, and it’s not like she _wanted_  to fight more monsters, but sometimes she didn’t really know how she fit with all of these people who have been going through this for so long already. She just really wanted to be…by their side.  
  
And she felt really dumb for feeling that, because Allison had also been there from the beginning. And she wasn’t trying to replace her, by any means. But Kira sometimes wondered if it’d be easier for everyone if Allison were still here, and it were Kira that everyone was mourning. It was the Yukimura family that started all of that, anyways.  
  
Kira jerked her head up when a different warm hand covered her own. This one was different from Mrs. McCall’s: larger, and a bit hairier, but just as gentle. She hadn’t even heard Scott coming up to her, didn’t even know _why_  he did, but he was _right_  beside her now, eyes wide and concerned.  
  
“Guys,” he said. “Can you give us a minute?”  
  
“Suuuuuure, Scotty,” Stiles said, swinging his arms around until they sort of haphazardly bashed into Derek’s shoulder. “C’mon, Derek! Let’s go see how much charisma you have now that you can’t hide behind your fangs. You too, Malia. We’re off to collect people! People for that meeting. That we’re all meeting up at tonight.”  
  
Malia blinked. “But I don’t _want_  ––“  
  
“And here we are, all leaving the room!” Stiles finished loudly, latching onto Malia’s wrist and hauling her after him as he marched out.  
  
Mrs. McCall sighed, and grabbed Kira’s chart on the way to the door. “I’ll be right back. I’m going to go see about getting you discharged. We’re probably going to need the bed soon, anyways.”  
  
Kira looked back over at Scott, who was opening his mouth to say something, and she blurted out, “I’m sorry!”  
  
Scott blinked, and he closed his mouth with a tilt of his head. “What?”  
  
“I’m sorry!” she repeated. “For not being that useful in the clearing, and kind of being in the way with you guys, and for all the things I apparently said about your…body.” Kira winced. “I’m _really_  sorry about that one.”  
  
“Kira,” Scott said. “Kira, listen to me.” He pressed his fingers in between hers, and carefully sat down by her knees on the bed. He looked… really tired, if she were being honest. But there was kind of a crinkle around his eyes when he stared at her, a tiny smile at the corner of his lips, and he also looked really, really good.  
  
“Kira, there’s nothing you need to apologize for. Nothing.” Scott ran his thumb over the back of her hand, and Kira was suddenly really glad that she wasn’t attached to a heart monitor. “I should be the one apologizing, for not being able to protect you. For almost getting you killed.”  
  
Kira shook her head. “Scott, you didn’t! You got me to the hospital and saved my life.” She hesitated, then carefully placed her free hand on top of their joined ones. “It’s not like you’re making me do this against my will, you know. I’m the one who’s deciding to join you in all of this. I know all of the risks going in.”  
  
“But it’s supposed to be my job! I’m an Alpha, I’m supposed to keep be strong enough to keep everyone _safe_. And I’m doing such a bad job of it.” Scott stared down at their hands, and shook his head. “Every time I think about all the things I _should_  be able to do, but _can’t_ , and all the things that I _could_  have done, I get…it just makes me so…"  
  
Kira sighed. “Maybe it’s also the Alpha’s job to realize that we’re supposed to be here to support you so that you don’t _have_  to do this alone, and that we can’t do that if you don’t trust us to take care of ourselves,” she said softly. She ran her fingers up from the back of Scott’s hand and along his forearm, carefully dodging the parts that were still puffy and pink. “You can’t control the entire universe. And you’re not invincible. It turns out a kitsune can heal faster than a wolf if you use a defibrillator on ‘em.”  
  
Scott let out a soft puff of a laugh, though still kept staring down at their hands. “I’ll make sure to bring one to the next fight, then.” He squeezed her hand a little tighter. “You’re really important, you know. To the pack, and to everyone that we try to save. And to me.”  
  
Kira looked down at their hands, too. “I know." She gets how this whole romance thing works. The theory seems pretty straightforward. But they never warn you in romantic comedies about how to navigate around recently-murdered exes and really big guilt complexes. “I really do. But you don’t have to do anything that you’re not ready for, Scott. It’s okay.”  
  
Scott licked his lips, glancing at Kira right when she looked back up at his face. “Are you just saying that because the sushi night was a total disaster?”  
  
A laugh burst out of her before she really realized it was happening. “It wasn’t a _total_  disaster. We’ll just probably never eat sushi. Ever, ever again.”  
  
“Seriously?” Scott said, eyes wide and devastated. “But I was practicing my chopstick skills! I was totally going to impress your mom!"   
  
Kira scrunched up her nose. “Well, my mom’s not really around right now, so it’s _me_  you’ll have to impress!"  
  
Scott blinked and tilted his head, laughing a lot less at her joke than the really wanted him to. “Hey, is everything else okay with you? Mom was saying that she couldn’t get a hold of your parents today to tell them what happened. You’re not home alone or anything, are you?”  
  
Kira swallowed. Oops. “Not…really? They probably had their phones off, but once my dad checks his messages, he’ll come get me.”  
  
Scott scanned her face, as Kira tried really hard not to obviously squirm on the bed. “Well,” he said, letting a smile grow on his face. Kira couldn’t even pretend that she wasn’t helpless against it. He could ask her for all of her life’s secrets with that smile, or to rob a bank or something, and she wouldn’t even question it. “Can I hang out with you until your dad gets here?”  
  
That was even better than bank robbery.  
  
“Are you guys going to be weird, or can other people hang out, too?” Malia asked, carefully poking her head into the room. “You promised last night that we’d do more reading this afternoon, and it’s not like you’re going anywhere right now, so…”  
  
Kira felt the grin stretch across her face. It was probably just the leftover electricity in her system, but as she looked between Scott and Malia, she could still feel the faint sparks popping along in her chest. “You can absolutely hang out! Did you bring the book?”  
  
Malia gave a wary glance at Scott before pulling the book out from behind her back. As soon as he saw the cover, though, Scott’s entire face lit up.  
  
“Dude!” he said, “ _Matilda_! I really loved that movie.”  
  
“You can read the first bit, then,” Malia said, shoving her way onto the bed beside Kira’s hip and handing the book to Scott. “We’re on page twenty-four. It’s the chapter called ‘The Hat and the Superglue’."  
  
_________________  
  
  
“Lydia?” Scott said. “Are you sure you’re ready?”  
  
“Just do it, already,” she snapped. It was weird. Lydia was sitting on his living room couch, Scott’s claws grazing the back of her neck, arms folded across her chest like they were the only thing holding her together. The last time he had done this, he and Lydia were attempting a hostile invasion of Stiles’s mind, and he stil felt a _lot_  less welcome this time around. At least he and Stiles had a standing agreement from fifth grade to let the other read their mind if they ever got the super powers to allow for it. Lydia had given her permission, but it still felt kinda… invasive.  
  
Scott looked down to Lydia’s left. This time, it was Derek seated beside her, probably the calmest of all three of them. Lydia was the one who had requested that he be here, that he be the one to come into her head with Scott. Scott had no idea why. Maybe it was because he’d been through this more than any of them.  
  
“It’s okay,” he was saying quietly to Lydia. “Trust Scott. He won’t touch a single memory without your permission.” Scott watched as Derek carefully placed his hand, palm up, on the couch between them.  
  
Lydia turned her head enough to meticulously study every inch of Derek’s face. Slowly, she uncrossed her arms and placed her hand on top of Derek’s, folding her fingers around his. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “Go,” she said softly.  
  
Scott nodded, and called up the full power that hummed beneath his skin. Usually he tried to keep the super senses dialled down to a not-overwhelming level, but he couldn’t stand the thought of something attacking the three of them while they were like this just because he wasn’t listening carefully enough. And so he let himself be overwhelmed, enough that the constant flood of information around him would still be accessible even inside Lydia’s mind, a faint stream that he could still tap into. He could smell the laundry his mom had pulled out of the dryer yesterday, the faint traces of gunpowder that had settled into Lydia’s hair from this morning. He could feel the press of the back of the couch against his knees and the tremor in the wood beneath his feet as Stiles, across from them, tried not to vibrate through the floor in his anxiety. And he could hear _everything_. The cars rumbling by his house, the wind chimes their neighbour had put up last year, the four thrumming heart beats that surrounded them. His mom had apparently given up on hovering just down the hallway, coming into the living room to stand just behind Stiles.  
  
An entire room full of people trusting Scott to keep them safe. Believing in Scott to stop whatever Peter was planning this time, to protect them from what he couldn’t protect Allison from.  
  
He could feel his instincts as an Alpha flare, deeper and more staggering than his regular werewolf powers. It’s not about power, it’s about having enough power to look after the people with less power. And he he was more than powerful enough for that. He could keep them safe.   
  
He sunk his claws into their spines.  
  
***  
  
The room they were in was _huge_ , not really a room, but more of a giant space with no walls or ceilings. That was a sort of soft, orange-pink colour.  
  
It wasn’t empty, though. Lydia was standing just in front of Scott and Derek, and starting at her feet was a giant white and purple staircase, spiralling up and around above their heads, far beyond any point that Scott could see. There weren’t any landings that he could see, but the stairs would periodically branch out into another spiral, curling off to the side. Each spiral had its own set of smaller staircases spinning off from it, like fern leaves, fading off into the orange-pink-ness. He didn’t even know if he’d be able to describe what this was like to anyone after. The whole thing seemed kinda…beyond words.  
  
So he said the only thing that he could: “ _Whoa_.”  
  
“It’s a fractal,” Derek said softly, and Lydia turned with a small smile.  
  
“It is,” she said. “It’s not my favourite one, but it was the one that made me realize that something could be both calculated and beautiful.” She let her gaze drift up along the staircase. “I was wondering what this would look like.”  
  
Scott followed her gaze. “Your brain is really scary. Really pretty, but… scary.” He looked back at Lydia and said, with every ounce of sincerity he could express, “Thank you for letting us in.”  
  
Lydia only held his eyes for a second, before blinking away. “There are people dying,” she said. “And I can’t stop all of them. But I can’t stop _any_  of them until I can get past whatever is blocking me from understanding my powers. And I need your help for that.”  
  
“Why do you think this is gonna work now?” Derek asked. “You never mentioned anything about this before.”  
  
Lydia spun back towards the staircase. “It was something on my mind when I woke up this morning.” She smoothed down her skirt and strode up the first few steps. “Are you coming?"  
  
They climbed for a while. A _long_  while. Scott kind of lost track of time, but Lydia seemed to know exactly where she was going, which was good. As far as he could tell, there was no difference between one side staircase and another, though every now and then, something would drift down that would hint at where it would go. Lydia’s voice saying something in a language Scott didn’t recognize, a conversation between two little girls about hair clips, the smell of something gross and chemical. And, one time, a glimpse of a little red-headed girl racing up the set purple and white stairs that curved away to the side, the scent of cupcakes floating around her.  
  
She was wearing a fluffy blue dress _covered_  in sparkles, and Scott recognized her instantly – the same little girl that Stiles had pointed out to him years ago, telling him that he had found a real live princess. Scott paused on the stairs, watching the little girl skip off to the side, only to have his view of her cut off as Lydia stepped into his line of sight. “Just because I let you in,” she said, “doesn’t meant you get a free run of the place.”  
  
Scott nodded. “Right.”  
  
“So where _do_  we go?” Derek asked. “Do you know what part of your brain your banshee powers connect to?”  
  
Lydia frowned. “Not… exactly. I just have a theory. Everything I pick up as a banshee comes through the most primal human senses: sound, sight, sometimes scent. I think… I think the reason I can never understand it is because there’s something blocking the information from crossing the Broca divide to a part of my brain where I can process it properly.”  
  
Scott blinked. “The broken _what_?”  
  
“Broca divide,” Derek said. “The invisible line in your brain that splits up your primal, animalistic instincts from your conscious mind.”  
  
Scott nodded. That kind of made sense. You sort of had to cross that line whenever you go back and forth between being a wolf and a human. No wonder Derek knew about it. Scott turned to stare at him, wondering if he was feeling human yet. Deaton had given him the shot this morning, and he said it’d take effect within a few hours. Or, at least, that’s what Deaton estimated. He apparently never stripped a born wolf of his powers before. Scott used to hate being a wolf, and it would have been _really nice_  to know that Deaton had a cure for that in his office all this time, but… he still felt really sorry for Derek. He’d been through too much already. Being a wolf was the only thing he knew, and Scott now had a much better idea of what it felt like to have your senses crippled against your will. Nearly getting killed by a hunter was bad enough. Having to erase the most basic part of yourself because that stupid, manipulative hunter-zombie was trying to suck information out of your skull and make you hurt people against your will made him just want to grab her by her stupid, manipulative throat and –––  
  
He was controlling the exploration of _someone else’s head_. He needed to stop that train of thought right now.  
  
“So,” he said, shaking his head clear. “We just need to wander around the instinctual bit until we find the banshee bit? Where’s this divide?”  
  
“I would guess around there,” Lydia said, pointing upward. If Scott squinted, he could see, _very_  faintly, a slight change of everything from the general orange-pink to a colder blue-grey.  
  
There were a _lot_  of stairs between here and there.  
  
Scott sighed. “I guess we keep climbing, then."  
  
He tried to snoop as little as possible as they climbed, forcing himself to ignore the bits and pieces of Lydia that drifted towards them from the branching staircases beside them. It actually wasn’t so bad. Step after step, the spiral turned past the smell of eggs, or the taste of toothpaste on his tongue, or the notes of a really catchy pop song from when he was around ten – the kind of thing that would be buried inside anyone else’s brain. It was the staircases echoing with muffled arguments that were harder to walk by. Ms. Martin and a man Scott never really remembered being around, shouting about the car, Lydia’s ballet lessons, the colour of the siding. Scott probably had a few of those arguments buried in his own head, too, and he could guess exactly how badly Lydia didn’t want anyone to know that they were there. But through it all, Lydia kept going, shoulders square, not a twitch of emotion on her face. So Scott kept following.  
  
Until he heard a voice that stopped him cold.  
  
“Lydia!” Allison’s voice carried down one of the staircases, and Scott’s knees nearly gave out where he was standing. He could hear her, clear enough that she could be standing right _there_  if he closed his eyes. She was laughing, scandalized at something that Lydia had said, _happy_. Scott was already three steps up towards her before he felt gentle fingers lace through his own.  
  
“Not today, Scott,” Lydia said, squeezing his hand. “We have to go.”  
  
“No,” Scott choked out, turning towards her. He blinked at how blurry she was, and scrubbed his free palm across his cheek at the tears that spilled onto them. “No, Lydia, she’s _right there_. I can’t… we have to…” Further up the stairs, he could hear more of her. Some soft humming, the giggles she only had when she was conspiring about something, the click and drag of an arrow being notched that he’s heard hundreds of times before.  
  
Derek cleared his throat. “We can’t, Scott. It can be dangerous to stay in here too long. For everyone.”  
  
“ _I don’t want to go_!” Scott yelled. His chest hurt _so much_. It wasn’t fair. She was so _close_. And he shouldn’t have been stuck only hearing that laugh again _here_.  
  
“It’s not the same, Scott,” Lydia said quietly. “Believe me, it’s not the same."  
  
Scott sucked in a breath to snap something back at her, but the hot copper smell of blood cut him off. Blinking, he looked down to see his claws sunk deep into the flesh of Lydia’s hand, blood seeping out around the tips of his fingers. He yanked his hand away like it was on fire, the wave of disgust that slammed through him making him stumble back against the stairs. He immediately launched himself up again, back to Lydia, where he could grab her bloody hand and start dragging away as much pain as he could.  
  
“Oh god, Lydia,” he said, nearly choking on his words. “Lydia, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean – I’m _so sorry_.”  
  
“Scott, it’s okay,” Lydia said, wrapping her other hand around his, as Scott glared at the black veins that _would not appear_. “It doesn’t hurt. This is just in my head, okay? Listen to me, Scott. We need to keep going.”  
  
Scott stared at her, swallowing, until he felt another hand drop onto his shoulder. “Anger’s not going to help,” Derek said. He wasn’t looking at Scott, but his hand still gave Scott’s shoulder a soft squeeze. “It feels like it might, but it never does.”  
  
“Then what helps?” Scott asked, closing his eyes. He wasn’t even sure if he was loud enough to be heard. “What do I do to make this better?”  
  
“You look for the things that make you feel something other than anger,” Derek said. “And then you hold onto those with everything you have.”  
  
Scott almost snorted. He felt plenty of things other than anger. Uselessness, for one. And guilt. Which was probably not at all what Derek was talking about. It’s not like he had tons of examples at the moment of things that inspired anything else. There hour he got after lunch, where he was squashed up on a bed with Kira, Malia, and a children’s book, wasn’t going to be something he could have all that often. It’d just be bloody battles with acid monsters and his mom breaking up his fights with his dad by being kind of awesome.  
  
And moments where Lydia could be absolutely incredible, all by herself, when she didn’t think she could.  
  
And things like the blurry sight of Malia’s grudging trust that _he_  managed to earn.  
  
Scott swallowed. “I… I’ll try. It’s… really hard, and I don’t even know if it’ll really work, but I’ll try."  
  
“Trying is enough,” Lydia said, staring off at the staircase behind him. Scott was about to apologize to her again, when something small and kind of bony shoved past Derek and slammed into him from behind.  
  
It was another little redheaded girl, who didn’t even pause as she elbowed her way through them and just kept going up the stairs. This one was different from the blue cupcake one that they had seen earlier. She was in figure skates and ear muffs, hair in two tight, pigtailed braids tucked behind her ear. She was older, closer to seven of eight, past the point of chubby cheeks and stubby fingers, and well on her way to world dominance.  
  
Little Lydia ran until she reached a spiralling junction ahead of them that looked like every other staircase that they’d passed. She then planted her feet and spun to face them, pointing imperiously down the side path.  
  
The real Lydia frowned as she watched the girl run past. Slowly, she slid her hands away from Scott’s and began taking cautious steps towards where the other version had stopped.  
  
When she was a few steps away, Lydia jerked to a stop with a sharp intake of air. Scott figured that she had just figured out where the stairs led, but he wasn’t really sure why she was suddenly so stiff. She didn’t stay that way long, though. After a few seconds, Scott saw Lydia clench her fingers into fists, and flick her hair over her shoulder. She started climbing the stairs again, pausing only long enough to raise an eyebrow at the child. “ _No_ ,” she said sharply and marched right past her.  
  
Behind her, Scott and Derek exchanged a look and followed after her, carefully stepping around the unimpressed girl and walking onwards.  
  
For only a few steps. Until Scott felt a small hand grip his wrist, tugging. Tugging with a _lot_  of strength, holy crap.  
  
He stopped, because he couldn’t actually pull his hand free without actually hurting the kid. Scott wasn’t 100% sure what happened to injured mind manifestations, but Lydia’s head was the _last_  place he wanted to experiment with that. “Uh, guys?”  
  
“We’re ignoring her,” Lydia called over her shoulder. “She’s not important."  
  
“Lydia,” Scott said, crouching down to be eye level with the little girl. “I… I don’t think we should.” The girl planted her free hand on her hip and raised her eyebrows. Well, it’s not like there was _doubt_  that this was Lydia. “She’s a creation of your mind, right? Maybe she wants to show us something your mind really wants to show us."  
  
He was still crouching, but he looked away from the little girl when he heard the click of a heel from a step nearby. Even from this angle, Lydia looked wide-eyed and antsy, swallowing over and over again and dragging her palms down over skirt. “I don’t want to go where she wants us to go,” she whispered.  
  
Beside him, Little Lydia snorted and rolled her eyes hard enough that Scott was kinda worried she’d hurt herself. Now that the real Lydia was close enough, the girl stretched out her hand for her. Not to grab, like she did with Scott, but palm open, waiting for Lydia to take it. Scott followed Little Lydia’s gaze, then slowly reached out his own hand beside hers. “I won’t judge you for a single thing we see here,” he said softly. “And I won’t tell a single soul.”  
  
Lydia flicked her gaze to Scott for a second before letting it slide back to the child. She closed her eyes and swallowed again, hard, the way Scott did as a kid when his mom made him drink really gross medicine. “Not Stiles,” she said.  
  
Scott nodded. He and Stiles were meant to tell each other everything, no matter what. And he had no idea why Lydia would trust him with something like this when she wouldn’t even let Stiles into her head. But Scott knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Stiles would understand. Lydia’s secret was not his secret to tell. And if he needed to keep this secret in order to protect Lydia, then that was exactly what he would do.  
  
“Not Stiles,” he said.  
  
Scott watched as Lydia nodded, took a deep breath, and reached out for both his and Little Lydia’s hands. Scott stood up as the girl laced her fingers through Lydia’s and let go of his wrist entirely. And so, silently, they made their way back down the stairs: Little Lydia pulling ahead, Scott by Lydia's side, and Derek following softly behind.  
  
The staircase that she led them to didn't have any sounds or smells that marked it as any different. Scott kept looking around as they turned up it and climbed, past any point that that could be seen from the main stairs, trying to figure out how Lydia was able to recognize this path enough to not like it. It wasn’t until Derek made a soft grunt of discomfort behind and below them that Scott realized to look down.   
  
Derek had slowed down, gingerly taking each step, jaw twitching whenever he put his foot down. When he looked closer at the actual steps, Scott realized that they _weren’t_  like the other stairs: instead of purple and bright white, these were grubby, covered in dirt. And underneath the dirt were small, jagged pebbles embedded into the stair, spread out wide enough to push sharply into the soles of your feet and take out any chance of stable footing. When Scott looked beside him, he could see that Lydia’s face was just as drawn as Derek’s. Her entire body was tense, mostly steady and nearly expressionless, but there was a tiny wobble and wince every time her heels landed on a new stair.  
  
Why wasn’t Scott feeling this?  
  
He was frowning about it as they rounded another wide arc of the stair spiral, as the general orange-pink around them became more yellow-brown and… solid. Scott almost didn’t catch the way the stairs ended suddenly in a huge wooden door that kind of awkwardly hung over the sides of the steps. He was so distracted by the dirt and the peebles that felt flat under his feet that he nearly missed Lydia jerking to a stop beside him. Scott looked up, startled.  
  
And found Peter.  
  
He was lounging in the dirt and pebbles of stairs, a plastic cup of what looked like fruit punch in his hands. His hair was longer than how Scott had seen it in the clearing this morning, combed back into slick waves. Nothing else about him was shifted, but his eyes were still a bright, glowing red.  
  
“And I thought I’d be left in this lonely corner of Lydia’s mind forever,” he said with a smug smile.  
  
“What are you doing here?” Scott snapped. How did Peter get into Lydia’s head? Did he sneak up on them in Scott’s living room? Was Stiles and his mom okay? Why was Scott able to stop this?  
  
Peter shrugged. “Why wouldn’t I be? I’ve made a home for myself here.” Lydia didn’t let go of Scott's hand, but she recoiled back a step.  
  
Derek took a step forward, putting himself between Lydia and Peter. “It’s pretty clear that Lydia doesn’t want you here.”  
  
“Yes, but that’s one of the perks about not bothering about getting an invitation,” Peter said. “If you can get inside by other means, you’re not expected to comply to the host’s request to leave.”  
  
Scott could feel Lydia’s convulsive shudder tremble right up his arm, and he snarled. Beside them, Derek’s fingers flared out before they flexed, twitched, and curled into fists.  
  
“Get _out_  of her head,” Scott demanded. “Leave!”  
  
“Scott,” Lydia said faintly, gripping his hand like a lifeline. She cleared her throat. “Scott. He’s not real. The real Peter is gone. This is… he’s…”   
  
“He’s a representation of what he did to you,” Derek said.  
  
Scott didn’t stop glaring at Peter as he tried to process what Derek was saying. A representation? Like the diagrams he had to do in math? “So he’s not real?”  
  
“Oh, I’m real enough,” Peter said, swirling the liquid in his glass like it was some kind of fine wine. “But I’m not a remnant of the Peter who haunted Lydia’s head to get his life back. I’m a different kind of ghost.” He smiled. “One that Lydia’s been keeping here all by herself.”  
  
Scott shook his head. He was supposed to be protecting everyone, and he somehow let himself be blind-sided. He hadn’t even noticed that Little Lydia, with her skates and her mittens, had completely disappeared. “Lydia? What does he mean? I don’t understand."  
  
“Even after he was gone,” Lydia said quietly. “It’s not like I could forget what he did to me. I was just… just _used_  as a supernatural vessel for his convenience, not given any control over what happened to me.” She closed her eyes. "All of this – the visions, the voices, the _screaming_  only started happening after he bit me. And I just… I can’t…"  
  
Scott couldn’t speak for a moment, choked on the cold and slimy knot of disgust in his stomach that made him want to throw up. This wasn’t about him and his inability to protect everyone at all. This was Lydia’s mind. This was about this awful thing that happened to her not that long ago that Scott had somehow forgotten about in all the craziness that happened since, but had stayed lodged in Lydia’s head…even if she didn’t want it there. Peter was actually someone that Lydia _hurt_  to think about, who stopped Lydia from being who she wanted to be just by _existing_.  
  
“It’s Peter,” Scott said, reeling. “It’s been Peter all this time that’s been keeping your banshee powers locked up.”  
  
“Not in the slightest,” Peter said, taking a sip from his punch. “I wasn’t the one responsible for locking away anything. Lydia’s a smart girl. She should have figured out how things worked long before now. I’ve just been getting in the way of her finding the…motivation to explore this part of her brain."  
  
Scott let the snarl rip out of him, baring his fangs and glaring at Peter with red eyes of his own. But he kept his claws in, kept his fingers wrapped around Lydia. He would _never_  hurt her again just because she had been reaching out to him.  
  
“Then I’ll _destroy_  you,” he growled. “I can do that now. I’m an Alpha, and I can rip you right out of her brain if I want to. And then I’ll find the living version of you and I’ll _tear him to pieces_.”  
  
He had slid his hands out of Lydia’s slack grip, and he had already taken a few steps towards Peter when Derek cut in front of him, shoving into Scott’s chest. “Scott, _stop_!"  
  
“ _GET OUT OF MY WAY_!” Scott roared.  
  
Derek stumbled a few steps back, nearly tripping over the rising stairs behind him, before he steadied himself. “No, Scott,” he said. “I won’t. Because I know you want to get Peter out of Lydia’s head, and we all know you can, but that’s _not your choice to make_."  
  
Scott swallowed down his next snarl as he tried to push down the instinctive need to get rid of this threat against one of his pack. He knew he could erase Lydia’s memories of Peter. He didn’t even know _how_  he knew, it was just a… an _alpha_  thing that was there in his head as soon as he needed it. Which would normally be a really cool skill, if he hadn’t gotten so caught up in it that he nearly hurt Lydia _again_  in _exactly_  the same way that Peter did.  
  
So he threw one last snarl at Peter and blinked himself back to just human before turning around to face Lydia. She hadn’t moved from where Scott had pulled away from her, eyes wide, jaw clenched, hands fisted.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he said, trying not to burn with the awareness that he had been seconds away from ‘sorry’ not ever being good enough. “I’m sorry. I told you that I would do nothing in here without your permission, and I nearly forgot that just now.” Scott took a deep breath. “So what would you like me to do?"  
  
Lydia closed her eyes. “I want him _gone_ ,” she whispered. Then she curled her lip. “But I don’t want to go back to who I was before he was here. It’s the worst type of victim complex."  
  
Scott nodded. He couldn’t say he understood how she felt that way, but he definitely understood that she _could_  feel that way. He turned to look back at the door that Peter was sprawled in front of. “Is getting past him to that door important enough to risk that?”  
  
Lydia pressed her lips together and swallowed once, twice. “I think so. I was told… I can sort of feel it. Behind that door is a way for me to be able to make these connections. Actually make sense of the things I hear. There are too many people who could die from me not going into that room.” She took a deep breath. “I have no idea who I’ll become if you scrub Peter from my mind, but… yes. Yes, I have to risk it."  
  
“You may not have to lose everything,” Derek said from behind Scott. “My mom, she… she knew of a way to remove the pain of a particular memory, the very worst parts of it, but still leave the lessons you learned from that pain.” Derek folded his arms across his chest and flicked a glance over his shoulder at Peter. “So you don’t have to go through that pain again. I couldn’t figure out how to do it, but I think you can, Scott.”  
  
Scott watched Lydia stand up straighter and take another deep breath. This one wasn’t steadying, wasn’t calming. He could see it in her eyes. It was the deep breath that a child takes when they might, _might_  get that trip to Disneyland after all. “Scott?” she said. “Can you actually do that?”  
  
Scott thought about it, really thought about it. Just because he knew it was a thing that other alphas could do doesn’t mean that _he_  could do it. He’s never messed around with anyone’s memories before, and there was no argument that Lydia’s brain was better than _everyone’s_  brain. What if he screwed up. But even as he tried to tell himself that this could be dangerous, Scott could feel his wolf, calmed after the outburst at Peter, rising proud within him. This was exactly why he became an alpha. This was exactly the kind of thing he was _supposed_  to do as an alpha, when he wasn’t under constant attack from every monster and monster hunter under the sun. He was supposed to keep people safe, keep people away from the things that would hurt them.  
  
Even the things that haunted their own minds. He would let himself be destroyed before he let himself harm his pack. _That_  was the core of being an alpha that he needed to hang onto, no matter how angry he got.  
  
“Yeah,” he said, with the absolute, _undeniable_  certainty of a True Alpha. “Yeah, I can do exactly that."  
  
_________________  
  
Derek pressed his back against the far wall of Scott’s living room, swinging his head back and forth as he tried to process the dull roar of so many people talking. He counted six other people here, with more to come, and it frustrated him that he actually had to _count_ , instead of just immediately knowing the number by the pounding of heart beats in his ear. He wouldn’t even have known that Mrs. McCall was in the next room, getting every water, if he hadn’t _watched_  her walk out.  
  
His wolf was completely inaccessible. Not dormant but still within reach. Gone. There wasn’t a trace of predatory reflex in his bones, no primal instinct automatically telling him how much of a potential threat these six other people were. He’d feel hollow if he didn’t feel weirdly… _heavy_ , lumbering and graceless.   
  
And he’d only been like this for seven hours. Two of them were in Lydia’s brainspace, where couldn’t feel the effect of being human anyways.  
  
But there wasn’t a single trace of _her_  voice in his head, laughing the laugh that had charmed him when he was teenaged and _stupid_. In the grand scheme of things, he’d be willing to temporarily withstand some clumsiness and the crippling of _every single one of his senses_  for the security of knowing that she couldn’t use him as a tool for her own destructiveness, not again.  
  
Still, though. It’s no wonder humans are so afraid of the supernatural. They’re basically useless.  
  
On one of his passes over the room, Derek saw Stiles walking towards him, approaching in the way people always assume they’re supposed to approach deer.  
  
“It’s okay, Stiles,” he said. “I’m not going to attack you again. Whatever shot Deaton gave me is keeping Kate out of my head.”  
  
“Yeah, I’m not worried about that,” Stiles said, and Derek felt his eyebrows furrow. That’s exactly the kind of thing he _should_  be worrying about. “You just seemed super skittish with your brand new Mere Mortal take on life, and I didn’t want to sneak up on your weakened ears and startle you into a heart attack."  
  
Derek rolled his eyes. “I promise that you, of all people, will not be able to sneak up on me. Ever.”  
  
“But you don’t deny being skittish?” Stiles turned to lean beside him against the wall, letting his shoulders thump into the wood hard enough that Derek could feel the muted tremors against his own back. “That bad, huh?”  
  
Derek folded his arms across his chest. He really didn’t like _anyone_  knowing how bad it was, having any hint at how defenceless he was. But that was the instinct of a wolf that was no longer prowling around inside of him. Logically, there’s no point in worrying about Stiles finding his weakness. He had been capable of killing Derek for months now, even if Derek would deny that fact until his last breath.  
  
“The room’s too noisy,” he said. “I can’t hear well enough to differentiate voices, so it’s all just a loud jumble. My eyes hurt from squinting all day, and my shin _still_  hurts from when I stumbled into a chair at _lunch_ , because I have a _bruise_.” Derek let his face drag down into a frown. " _And_  I feel like I’m breathing through a sterilization filter. How do you people ever smell _anything_?”  
  
“I figured it’d be a nice break,” Stiles said. “I’ve heard what Scott has to say about the smell in our locker room after lacrosse."  
  
Derek snorted. “Just because he _can_  smell everything doesn’t mean he _should_  smell everything.” He let his arms slide up to fold across his chest. He’d been going out of his way to keep his hands down by his sides, nonchalantly tucked into his pockets. But he _hated_  letting them hang in such a vulnerable position. It just felt… better, knowing that he had _some_  kind of protection over his most important internal organs, flimsy and human.  
“It’s just… different. I can’t tell anymore what state people are in when they’re around me. I don’t know if they’re angry or hurt or afraid. I have no idea where they came from, if they’re lying, or if they’re about to attack me. I don’t like it."  
  
“Why don’t you do what the rest of us have to do and just talk to them?” Stiles asked, then blinked. “Oh my god!” He grinned. “You don’t want to be human because it means you have to _talk_  to people! _That’s_  what’s got the stick up your butt!"  
  
Derek felt his lip curl. It would have something like a snarl, if he could have felt the force of a predatory instinct actually backing it up. As it was, it was barely enough to be disdainful. “There’s no stick up my butt."  
  
“Dude, there really, really is.” Stiles snorted. He rubbed at his forearms through his sleeves, watching as Scott opened the door for Kira and her father, leading them to where Lydia and Malia were already seated. “But I can see why you’d miss it. It’d be nice, you know, to tell what kind of state people are in. To make sure they’re okay.”  
  
Derek turned to look at Stiles, to _really_  look and see what his face was doing now that he didn’t have chemosignals painting a clearer picture. He was still staring at the other group of people, but not with the stiff, sort of wide-eyed casualness that Stiles always had whenever he eavesdropped. His face was just… slack. No furrowed eyebrows, no upward tilt to his lips, no twitching jaw working its way through whatever puzzle he was dealing with. It made Stiles seem weirdly… absent, lost. Less _present_  than Derek had ever seen him. But ‘lost’ wasn’t even an emotion, so the whole exercise was useless at actually giving information. There didn’t seem to be anything wrong with Scott, so... “Are you worried about the Sheriff?"  
  
Stiles blinked, like he had forgotten that he was talking to Derek, then shook his head, shrugged, and rubbed the back of his neck _at the same time_. Apparently he wasn’t _that_  lost. “No. I mean, yes. But I’m always worried about him, so it’s nothing new. And I learned all of my interrogation tactics from him. I can read the man like a book and find out within a minute if something’s wrong with him.” He ran him palm over the knuckles of his other hand, and swallowed. “I just wanted to know why Lydia doesn’t trust me enough to get into her head."  
  
Derek bit back a sigh. He was here for Scott, to be the best beta he could be for him, but the _last_  thing he was interested in was _another_  slog through the mires of teenage drama when there were _more important_  things going on. “Stop trying to find out if she has a crush on you back. The answer’s no.”  
  
“What?” Stiles turned to stare at Derek for second, eyes narrowed, before looking away again. “ _No_. God, I’m not _that_  self-absorbed.” Stiles scrunched his face up in a way that Derek wasn’t actually sure normal humans could do, and bounced his gaze all over the room: from Lydia to the floor to his hands to the door to Derek and back to the floor again. “I was just… when I was – not _me_ , but the nogitsune – I thought maybe letting me into her head would trigger something from then that she didn’t want – that she shouldn’t _have_  to deal with?”  
  
It wasn’t really a question, but it sort of sounded like one. Derek wasn’t entirely sure. Inflection was never a thing that was all that important in a house full of wolves. He understood what Stiles was trying to say, though. He would have understood even if he hadn’t seen his uncle sprawled out on the sooty steps of Lydia’s fractal brain, hadn’t spent his morning giving up the only part of himself he actually liked in order to stop being literally haunted by the woman who ruined his life.  
  
He could spend hours talking about being plagued by the people who had been in his life. He could probably spend even longer talking about all the times he’d become the person plaguing. It’s not like he had a dearth of material to work with.  
  
But he already had a bruised shin and squint-sore eyes. Just because he could hold his own in it didn’t mean that he had any intention to have that conversation _today_.  
  
So he turned to Stiles, eyebrow raised. “You’re telling me you’re not self-absorbed, but you’re concerned you’re haunting _Lydia_ ’s mind?”   
  
“Hey, I _could_  be!” Stiles snapped in exaggerated offence, but with so much bitterness that Scott and Lydia both looked up from the couch they were sitting on. Kira had been about to follow their gaze, but Derek watched as she was distracted by something Malia said to her father.  
  
Derek turned to look at Stiles again. Lydia had been right to ask Derek and Scott not to tell him. It didn’t matter if Stiles was glaring at his shoes with enough aggression and petulance to set them on fire. He wouldn’t have been able to handle the constant ache he would have felt hobbling up those stairs, not with the callused weariness that Derek had built by now. Or even the cold determination that Lydia used in the face of anything that threatened the extent of her control. It’d be too fresh for Stiles, too sharp and bloody. And he would have figured out instantly the common denominator he shared with Derek and Lydia, while Scott was left indifferent to that particular pain.  
  
And so he didn’t need to know.  
  
“You weren’t haunting her,” Derek said. “She just needed Scott to clear some things out so she can better process the whole banshee thing. She probably just didn’t want you poking around because you wouldn’t be able to keep your hands to yourself."  
  
Stiles snorted, but didn’t deny it. Instead, he said, “So did Scott fix it? Is being a banshee… better for her now?”  
  
Derek thought about it. Lydia hadn’t seemed immediately different after Scott had lifted Peter from her mind, but she _had_  started up towards the door the second he had faded. And while the stairs were still covered in soot, they had felt less… piercing to Derek when he followed after her. The sight beyond that door had been nothing short of amazing, a ballroom in mahogany and gold, thousands of taut piano strings stretched through the air.  
  
She had stopped a few steps into the room, frozen for so long that Derek had been suddenly terrified that something had gone wrong with Scott’s memory removal after all. But then she took a deep breath, and another, and a third, her shoulders more relaxed than Derek had ever seen them. She had strode through the room, gracefully weaving through the piano strings in a dance that Scott and Derek couldn’t hope to replicate. When she finally stopped by a string that looked like every other string, she had spun around to face them with a smile that screamed of absolute certainty. “ _This_  one,” she had said, and pulled the string.  
  
“Yeah,” Derek said. “I think it is."  
  
“Good,” Stiles said in a gush of air. “Good. Because we need everyone on their A-game right now. Are you guys sure about the Beacon thing? Like _really_  sure? Like 100%, swear-on-your-homicidal-reanimated-uncle’s-grave sure?”  
  
“We’re _sure_ , Stiles,” Derek sighed. Scott was getting up to answer the door again, but Derek needed to rest of whoever was coming to show up _now_. Stiles needed a distraction in a big way, and it was pretty clear that all the waiting for the distraction to happen wasn’t helping. “We heard it. It’s a Beacon. And it’s been on for a while. But it doesn’t seem to have anything to do with that mechanism protecting the city just… stopping."  
  
“But what _was_  the mechanism?” Stiles asked. “Did it sound like a chain-link fence? Those fancy mechanical gates you see on parking garages? A stone wall?”  
  
Derek frowned. “What does a stone wall sound like?”  
  
“Like… smacking. You know, that sound that Wile. E. Coyote makes when the Roadrunner tricks him into hurting himself. The kind of … _shppllkt_.” Stiles had been smacking his fist into his palm, but shook his head after he petered off. “You know what, never mind. What’s important is _how_  it was keeping things out. Did it work on everything but werewolves? Because there was definitely an alpha pack in town two months ago. Or does it only ‘guard’ when the Beacon is on? Can we turn the Beacon off and get the wall-gate-fence thing up again for good measure and… and is that  _Braeden_?”  
  
It was, apparently. She was standing on the other side of the door that Scott had just opened, exactly as unimpressed with the world as she was when she had shown up for Derek in Mexico.  
  
“I heard you had a monster problem,” she said around her gum. She strode past Scott and dropped herself down on the couch beside Malia. “Apparently you guy still haven’t figured out how to get the neighbours off your lawn without someone holding your hand.”  
  
Braeden propped her feet up on the coffee table and smiled the smile of a casino bookie, even as her eyes casually flicked to every exit and blind spot in the room. It wasn’t as impressive as the last entrance Derek had seen her make, but since he didn’t actually want anyone in this house gunned down, it was good enough.  
  
“Dude,” Scott said, staring at Stiles. “I thought you said you weren’t able to find her.”  
  
“I _wasn’t_ ,” Stiles shrugged. “Tried every trick in the book. Couldn’t even dig up a PO box. And trust me, law enforcement databases are _thorough_.”  
  
Braeden snorted.  
  
“Luckily,” a new voice said, “I was able to persuade her to join us this evening.”  
  
Derek clenched his teeth as he watched Deaton come in and close the door behind him. He didn’t even _notice_. And he had positioned himself so that he would be _facing_  the door.   
  
Scott carefully looked between Deaton, quietly easing himself into the armchair, and Braeden’s boots on his coffee table, his lips pressed together.  “Well,” he said. “It looks like everyone’s here, so we might as well get started.”  
  
“Wait,” Kira blinked. “Everyone? What about the Sheriff?”  
  
Stiles shook his head. “Can’t make it. The station blew up, so it’s all hands on deck. Doesn’t help that a particular  _giant jackass of a secret agent_  decided to show up on the scene to bog everyone down with some paperwork that is straight up bullsh –– _hey_ , Melissa! Didn’t see you there.”  
  
“Mmhmm,” Mrs. McCall said as she crossed the room with a tray of glasses. Derek grabbed it from her, and she picked up one to shove into Stiles’s hands. “I actually just had your dad on the phone. Apparently one of the deputies somehow convinced all the other officers to stick to a story that didn’t breathe a word about giant birds, so the Sheriff is sending everyone home and is making Rafe come back in the morning. He says he and Parish should be here within the hour."  
  
“Who’s Parish?” Malia asked.  
  
“One of the deputies,” Scott said, reaching to take the tray from Derek. Derek swallowed down a sigh of relief. He would have helped her. He’s not a barbarian. But all he knew was that the reflexes he had as a werewolf were gone. He had no idea if the baseline of human coordination was even enough to handle walking and carrying something at the same time, or if it was something they actually had to learn over time. Either way, Derek had _no_  interest in finding out in a crowded room that contained an opportunistic mercenary.  
  
Scott gave Derek a small smile as he grabbed the tray, nodding at him to stay where he was. Derek nearly smiled in return. Apparently Scott had been getting a _lot_  better at reading chemosignals. He turned to follow his mom around the room, saying to Malia, “The Sheriff asked me if we could tell him about us. He was saying that it’s getting a lot harder to be the only officer who knows about what’s really going on in Beacon Hills."  
  
“Is that… wise?” Mr. Yukimura asked. “Telling someone who isn’t associated with any of this?”  
  
“We can trust him,” Lydia said, reaching for her glass with a small nod. “Plus, he’s apparently a demolitions expert.”  
  
Braeden nodded. “Always a good person to have around. Explosions are my favourite way to bag a tough bounty."  
  
Mrs. McCall paused, pulling back the glass of water she had been offering Braeden and giving her a once-over. “Are you the mercenary?” she asked. “Yes? Are you planning on killing anyone in this house? No? Then get your boots off my table. I don’t care how many guns you own. You are a guest in this house, and your profession is no excuse not to act like one.”  
  
Stiles made an aborted lurch forward, like he had any chance of making it across the room and getting himself between Mrs. McCall and whatever Braeden’s reaction would be. But Scott, tray balanced in one hand, gently raised the other behind his mother’s back, waving Stiles to stay still.  
  
With a grudging smile, Braeden swung her feet to the floor.  
  
“So Scott,” she said, still not taking her eyes away from Mrs. McCall. "Why don’t you tell us why we’re all here?"  
  
Scott nodded, moving to put the tray down before turning to where he could face everyone. “I think I caught everyone up on the basics: Peter is up to something, Kate is up to something, the Beacon is calling new supernatural creatures to town, and the barrier thing that we didn’t even know was protecting us from them is now down.”  
  
“I think it was deliberate,” Lydia said, frowning faintly at her glass. “It didn’t just stop working. Something turned it off.”  
  
Derek scowled. _That’s_  why Lydia had been pondering those particular strings for so long, even when she had found them almost immediately in the ballroom. And intentional tampering made a lot more sense than the gate-thing, whatever it was, ceasing to function _now_ , just months after the Beacon started up again. The problem was all that was implied by that particular conclusion. “So someone _wants_  to flood Beacon Hills with monsters? To what, take over the town? Get rid of us?"  
  
Stiles shrugged. “It’s what I’d do if I wanted to get rid of us. They get the result they want, without the hassle of us personally going to kick their asses."  
  
“That’s a stupid idea,” Malia said, shaking her head. “If they’re not strong enough to fight us themselves, why take us down with an even stronger enemy if you just have to deal with _them_  after?"  
  
“Pitting two strong enemies against each other is actually a tactical strategy that’s been used over and over again in history,” Mr. Yukimura said. “They fight for long enough, and both sides become vulnerable to your attack when they are already weak and vulnerable.”  
  
Mrs. McCall folded her arms across her chest. “This town is not built for a turf war.” The _and neither are we_  she left unsaid didn’t really need to be added.  
  
“We’re not going to let it get to that point,” Scott said.  
  
“So who’s trying to weaken us, then?” Kira asked, looking from her dad to Scott to, hesitantly, Derek. “Peter or Kate?”  
  
“Whichever one is responsible for taking down the barrier,” Lydia said.  
  
“Well _that_  answer is easy,” Braeden said. “Has a hunter died recently?”  
  
She didn’t react to it, but Derek knew she was well aware of how still the room suddenly became. It’s the first thing you learn to look out for when you live in a world constantly full of potential attack, regardless of whether or not it’s the supernatural variety. But she ignored it, chewing her gum like all she had asked for was the time.  
  
“Why would that matter?” Scott growled carefully.  
  
“Because hunters were the one who put it up in the first place.” Braeden shrugged. “ _Way_  back in the early days of city, before the werewolves knew enough druids to really put a cork in the Beacon, they built a big magical barricade to keep the riff raff out. It’s been up ever since. There are a few techniques to take it down, but the easiest way to make a crack is to kill off the remaining heirs to the hunter line."  
  
Scott blinked, then turned to Deaton. “Did you know about this?”  
  
“I… suspected,” Deaton said, taking a careful sip of his water. He gave Braeden a very deliberate frown. “But it was not my place to say.”  
  
Derek hadn’t really _stopped_  scowling, because it’s not like anyone was bringing up any news in the meeting full of abounding mirth. But he kind of wished he had a way to scowl  _more_  without baring his teeth outright. He had been so distracted by missing Deaton’s arrival that Derek didn’t even catch that the arrival had been _with_  Braeden, let alone the fact that he apparently knew her well enough to get her to even show up.  
  
“Just like it wasn’t your place to explain the _direct family connection_  that I might have to this whole supernatural world?” Stiles snapped.  
  
Deaton sighed. “I didn’t know that for sure, Stiles, and there’s no way to confirm it outside of very dangerous circumstances.”  
  
Stiles narrowed his eyes. “Didn’t know, or just didn’t feel like sharing?”  
  
“Oh, no, he probably didn’t actually know,” Braeden said. “It’s his fault for specializing.”  
  
Derek blinked. He had always grown up knowing about Deaton in a vague, mystical sense: the man his mom went to when even _she_  didn’t know what to do. It just seemed natural to assume that he didn’t share much information because he didn’t _want_  to. “What do you mean, ‘specializing’?”  
  
“My decision to become an emissary for the Hale pack has allowed me to access very particular knowledge about werewolves and shifters,” Deaton said. “But as a consequence has limited the ways I can share this knowledge."  
  
“What, like a non-disclosure agreement?” Stiles asked. “You get a werewolf fine for breaking your contract?"  
  
Braeden popped her gum. “Think of it as more of a… very binding gag order."  
  
“Wait,” Stiles said. “ _Wait_. Are you telling me that Deaton’s been pulling this whole vague, mystical, riddle-me-this act on us for so long because some  _spell_  is keeping him quiet?"  
  
Deaton frowned at Braeden. “You overstep, cousin.”  
  
Scott raised his eyebrows. “Cousin?”  
  
Braeden snorted. “Only in the same way Marin Morrell would be his sister.”  
  
“So in the way that provides us no information at all?” Derek asked.  
  
“It provides us some,” Lydia said, lips crowded down into a frown. “It’s not Kate who took down this barricade. She wouldn’t do that to Allison.”  
  
“Lydia’s right,” Derek said. “She’s… incredibly loyal to her family ties. But she’s not above capitalizing on something like this if it meant some kind of advantage for her.”  
  
“Is _that_  how she came back to life, then?” Stiles asked. “Sucked the juice out of the barricade and left us to deal with the mess?"  
  
“But Kate didn’t kill Allison!” Kira said, leaning a bit deeper into the couch when every turned to stare at her. “Neither did Peter. One of the Oni did."  
  
“Like I said, the death of a hunter heir only makes a crack,” Braeden said. “There’s a lot more that needs to be done to fully take the barrier down. And get it back up again.”  
  
“So what needs to be done?” Scott asked.  
  
Braeden, coiled like a spring and looking particularly relaxed, flicked her eyes across the room and let a smile curl across her face. “You know, a lot of people would consider that _very_  valuable information."  
  
Lydia stiffened like she had been slapped, nostrils flaring. “Are you trying to extort _money_  out of us?” she hissed.  
  
“It’s not extortion. It’s a proposed business transaction,” Braeden said. “You’d like information, and I like the security of a flush bank account. Besides, you were the one who asked me to come tonight. You’re lucky I gave you the free information that I already did.”  
  
“Then we thank you for the information you’ve already given us,” Scott said, a rumble of a growl at the back of his throat. “But please consider yourself no longer welcome.”  
  
Derek couldn’t instinctively tell what exactly the growl meant any more, couldn’t hear enough nuance in the sound to pick up the emotion behind it. But even if he could, he didn’t think that kind of growl would be familiar. Not from Scott. It seemed more…heated, even than in the moments when Derek had watched him fight for his life and his loved ones. More vicious.  
  
Braeden tilted her head, giving Scott an evaluative once over before shrugging and standing. She went over to his mother, carefully placing the glass her in hands. “Thank you for your hospitality, Mrs. McCall."  
  
She was across the room and reaching for the door when Scott moved, almost too fast for Derek’s eyes to track now. He caught Braeden by the shoulder, spinning her around and slamming her back against the door. She hadn’t moved to block him, just watched Scott with wary eyes as her hand rested near the gun holstered on her thigh.  
  
“Braeden.” Scott said, letting his eyes glow bright and bloody. “If anyone proposes a business transaction over _any_  information you picked up here, you’re gonna say so. No matter how secure you’d like your bank account to feel.”  
  
Braeden ached and eyebrow, then very deliberately turned her head so that the white scars running down her throat were visible. “Don’t forget that I walked away from Deucalion, _alpha_  McCall.”  
  
Scott slammed his hand into the doorframe with enough force to make everyone else in the room jump, sinking his claws deep into the wood. “Then don’t forget that it was my decision to let Deucalion walk away from _me,_ ” he snarled.  
  
“…Scott?” Kira’s voice rang out in the sudden silence. She was standing, reaching out to him though even Derek could tell that she was just as rattled as everyone else who just saw what happened. When Scott tilted his head towards her, eyes still red, she swallowed and took a step forward. “You should probably let her go. We… There’s a lot of stuff we need to plan for tonight. We need all the time we can get.”  
  
Scott looked at her for a long moment before blinking his eyes back to a normal and taking a step back from Braeden. Mrs. McCall winced at the creaking wood of the door frame when he pulled his claws free. Braeden, exactly as indifferent as when she walked in, opened the door and strode out. “Let me know when you want to talk fees,” she called out over her shoulder.  
  
Scott carefully closed the door behind her, and turned back to face the room, taking a deep breath. “So,” he said, “The Beacon is turned on, the barricade is turned off. There are monsters overrunning the town, and they might be after _us_. What do you guys think we need to do?”  
  
“Find out how exactly Kate is up and walking around,” Stiles said, yanking his eyes away from the holes in the door frame. “And fix that.”  
  
“And do something about this Peter guy,” Malia said, folding her arms across her chest. “Find out these ‘interests’ he’s protecting, and destroy them.”  
  
Derek turned to look at Malia while Lydia, beside her, carefully let her gaze drift away. Despite how long she had been turned, Malia had never learned to recognize the smell of kin, which made sense. Coyotes weren’t pack animals. They didn’t have the compulsion that wolves had to instinctively seek out family, even if they had never met before. Derek knew from the first time Scott had brought her out to training that they shared the same blood, even if he couldn’t figure out through whom they shared it.   
  
“Shouldn’t we find out _why_  they’re doing what they’re doing, first?” Mr. Yukimura asked. Kira had finally sunk down into the couch beside him, but he still frowned as he stared at Scott. “How can we expect to stop them if we don’t know their motives?"  
  
“Kate was born and raised a hunter,” Lydia said. “She’s never been fond of werewolves. That’s motive enough.”  
  
“And Peter and I have…history,” Scott added.  
  
“There might be more to it than that.” Derek closed his eyes. He didn’t _want_  to say it, but it needed to be said. “Peter’s never stopped wanting power.”  
  
Stiles blinked. “So? That’s not exactly revolutionary news."  
  
“So an alpha weakened by outside attacks might be too tempting for him to ignore,” Deaton said. He pressed his lips together. “If a werewolf challenges and defeats an alpha, the power inherited comes from that alpha, and becomes the cornerstone of the new alpha’s powers.”  
  
Derek caught Scott’s eye and nodded at his raised eyebrow. It was the same thing he would hear from his mom growing up, the beginning of a lesson about the kind of wolves that caused nothing but conflict between packs. An example of the kind of wolf that she never wanted him to grow up to be, and the kind of wolf that Peter had always been inches away from becoming, even before the fire.  
  
Mrs. McCall frowned, worried lines stark around her eyes. “So if Peter kills a True Alpha...”  
  
Deaton exhaled in a soft sigh. “Then the power of a True Alpha will find a way to manifest in nearly every action he takes."  
  
Scott’s face had collapsed into a frown that Derek recognized from nearly a year ago, the same petulant dislike that crossed his face after he was first bitten and Derek had done everything he could to keep him alive. “So it’s Peter who’s doing all of this? Again?"  
  
“You know, I don’t think it is,” Stiles said, rolling his glass between his palms. When everyone looked at him, he shrugged. “What? When has Peter  _ever_  gotten anything he’s wanted by doing all the work himself? Even when he was doing his stint on the Angry Revenge Express, he was only around for the fun, murdery bits when he was _way_  beyond the point of functional sanity. His M.O. is opportunistic manipulation, not hands-on dirty work. At most, I’d bet that he just used that super creepy charm of his to sweet talk whoever actually took down the barrier into taking it down on a timeline that better fit whatever nefarious plans he’s running now."  
  
Derek winced. “He’s still my family, Stiles,” he said. He knew first hand of all the ways Peter deserved every ounce of suspicion he got, but Derek also understood better than anyone else the kind of rage that drove him to cross that line into murderer. And now that Cora had made it _very_  clear in South America that she wouldn’t ever be able to come back to Beacon Hills again, Peter was all that he had left.  
  
“Yeah,” Stiles said softly, and very carefully flicked his gaze to Malia for a fraction of a second. “But are you his?”  
  
Derek scowled at the fact that Stiles would even suggest that, even as he felt his jaw clench at his inability to deny it. It’s not like he didn’t already have his theories on how Malia was related to the Hale pack.  
  
“So you think there’s a third person?” Lydia asked. “Someone else who took down the barrier? Someone we know nothing about?"  
  
Stiles blinked, twisting his face in thought before he grimaced. “Uh, I guess I do?"  
  
“Then I don’t think wasting time figuring out who did it should be a priority,” Mr. Yukimura said firmly. “We need to figure out where this barrier is and how to fix it.”  
  
Malia nodded. “Or find some way to turn off the Beacon.”  
  
“Preferably both,” Derek said.  
  
“I’d suggest doing something about whatever’s already in town,” Mrs. McCall added. “The hospital is barely holding it together as it is. We don’t have the capacity to handle something like today on a regular basis. You need to be able to nip this in the bud.”  
  
“I think we can work on that,” Stiles said. He caught Lydia’s eye. “We’re thinking of coming up with a database, building from the Argent’s bestiary. We’ll start with the ones that Lydia may have picked up on before she realized it, and, I don’t know, make up some kind of tooth and claw flowchart for easy monster identification.”  
  
“We can also make a short list of the most common defences that can be used against them and make sure everyone is prepared in case we get attacked on short notice,” Lydia added. “Maybe have some generic traps in place so we’re readier for another onslaught like today."  
  
“Are they all monsters?” Kira asked. “I mean, I know all the ones today were, with claws and teeth and _acid_ ,” she scrunched up her nose. “But are we sure that’s all that’s coming in?” She exchanged a look with her dad. “I’m pretty certain the only reason we came to this town was because of the Beacon, and I didn’t even know I was a kitsune until I got here.”  
  
Scott was still frowning, but it was less petulant now, more concerned. “I hadn’t thought of that at all! How do we even find them if they look like _people_? What if they’ve already been in town for a while, just waiting?"  
  
“So why don’t you just ask all the new people in Beacon Hills if they’re monsters, then?” Malia said. “If they respond by attacking you, then you know you’re onto something."  
  
“What, find  _everyone_  coming into town?” Stiles asked, jaws slacked and eyes narrowed at the idea. “You’re  _joking_."  
  
“It’s not as hard as you’d think.” Lydia said, staring off to the side in consideration. "With all the unexplained deaths, people are abandoning Beacon Hills faster than rats on a sinking ship. Other than those who are poorly misinformed and think our new property values are a steal, no one’s coming here unless they want to.”   
  
“And I think I can help, there,” Mr. Yukimura said. “I can make a class assignment that requires everyone to find a new resident of Beacon Hills and interview them about their history. Thirty people asking around covers more ground than five, and no one will question the interrogation if it’s for someone’s homework.”  
  
“Are you seriously going to make us write a _paper_  while we’re trying to save the town?” Stiles demanded.  
  
“It’s a good idea,” Lydia said. “It takes suspicion off of us if Peter or Kate hears about it, and then we’ll have documented data to compare to our research. I can give you a list of questions to include.”  
  
“The hospital’s a mess, but I’ll see if I can pull up any records that might be useful,” Mrs. McCall added. “I have no idea what I’d be searching for, but I’ll take a look.”  
  
“Good,” Scott said. “I think the only thing we can do right now is gather as much information as possible as fast as possible. Stiles, you and Lydia get to work on this database of things that can come to town, and everything you can find that’ll stop them. Mom, we need everything that you can give us about any strange thing you see at the hospital. I’ll ask the Sheriff for anything he can share, too. Malia and I will spend as much as our free time scoping the woods around Beacon Hills. Maybe we can catch wind of something coming in before it even gets too close. Kira, see if you can find _anything_  in the history of this town that talks about this barricade or the Beacon. Mr. Yukimura, I’m trusting you with figuring out which new people in town we need to keep an eye out for. Cross reference it with school records, Stiles’s database, anything you get from the police department. I don’t care. You tell us if there are _any_  red flags. Derek…”  
  
Scott trailed off as he met Derek’s eye, and Derek clenched his jaw hard to stop from swallow past the hard and jagged lump clogging his throat.  
  
“I understand, Scott,” he said. “You need me gone. I don’t have my werewolf powers, and as long as there’s a chance that Kate can still get into my head, I’m just a liability.”  
  
Scott shook his head, his eyes softening. “Not what was I was going to say, man.” He came over and carefully placed a warm hand on Derek’s shoulder, sighing quietly. “I was going to ask you to do the hardest thing out of all of them. I need you to profile Peter _and_  Kate. They might be our biggest threat, and you know more about both of them than anyone here. I don’t know what we need yet, but _any_  information you can give might be important. Can you do that?”  
  
Derek was silent for a long time. Could he? There was a time in his life where he would have proudly died for either of them, and regardless of what they’ve done to him, laying out Peter’s secrets and Kate’s weaknesses so that an alpha who wasn’t his kin could defeat them seemed more…ruthless than he was willing to be. Which was idiotic, he knew, because Derek would never be remembered for being merciful. It was simply that this was… exactly the kind of thing that Peter or Kate would do to him, if it meant securing whatever prize they wanted.  
  
“Yes,” Derek said. “Yes, I can.”  
  
Scott nodded. “Thank you. Deaton,” he turned to the vet, leaving his hand on Derek’s shoulder. “I need you to do whatever it takes to fix Derek. Get this weird new wolfsbane out of him, and keep Kate out of his head for good. You don’t need to tell us _how_ , but you need to make it happen.”  
  
Alan studied Scott for a moment, then tilted his head forward. “I will do my best.”  
  
Scott nodded. “We keep everyone informed of _everything_  that comes up. And if something attacks someone in this town, _anyone_  who is free goes to help them. No matter what. I won’t let anyone else die.”  
  
“How are we really going to do that, Scotty?” Stiles asked, folding his arms across himself. “You and Malia are the only functioning shifters we’ve got, but Kira needs a battery pack if she’s gonna keep up with the damage you guys take, Derek’s temporarily on the bench, Lydia and I aren’t exactly weapons experts, and everyone in this room over the age of thirty can’t even run fast enough to get away from whatever’ll come at us. Uh, no offence,” he added, wincing as he looked from Mrs. McCall to Deaton to Mr. Yukimura. “What I’m saying is…well, how can we protect this town if we barely stand a chance ourselves?”  
  
Scott let his shoulders slump, and Derek felt a momentary echo from when his own eyes turned red and the people he cared about had asked questions like this. He remembered that weight, that responsibility, and it was more dispiriting than he expected to see it on Scott’s shoulders now.  
  
“I don’t know,” Scott said. “But we have to try."  
_________________  
  
  
“Wow. Werewolves. And fox demons. And giant birds.” Parish shook his head, before turning to the Sheriff. “How long have you known about all of this?”  
  
The Sheriff snorted. “Too long,” he grumbled.  
  
A sudden sharp squeak at the white board where his son was standing made the Sheriff look up from the table he was seated at with Lydia and Parish. Stiles had been scribbling frantically all over both sides of the white board for the last hour, swapping between the marker in his hand, the one behind his ear, and the one clutched between his teeth. He looked over his shoulder to see if anyone had caught the big black line he had been startled into dragging through the middle of his work, spitting the third marker into his hand.  
  
“Sorry! Hand slipped, carry on!” Stiles spun back to the board, rubbing with his fingers to erase out the black line, but the Sheriff knew his son well enough to catch the guilty slump of his shoulders. “And sorry you got dragged into this whole mess,” the boy muttered before he shoved the marker back into his mouth.  
  
The Sheriff closed his eyes and fought down the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. Stiles never talked to him about it, but it didn’t take a genius to figure why the damn kid had nearly landed himself with a juvie record trying to keep this whole business from him. _He_  was the Sheriff, for Christ’s sake. It’s supposed to be  _his_  job to keep his son safe from the things that went bump in the night. And yet Stiles had kept it from him for nearly a year, because he was expecting his dad to react exactly the way the Sheriff was right now.  
  
God, Stiles needed Claudia in his life more than ever right now, and the Sheriff of Beacon Hills would never be an adequate replacement.  
  
“Almost done what you’re working on, kid?” the Sheriff asked, trying for an “encouraging but not patronizing” voice, like the parenting books he had spent years fighting with recommended.  
  
“Actually, almost, yeah,” Stiles said scribbling in one last word on the side. “Ta _daa_!” He stepped back and flung his arm wide to show off the board, grinning wide.  
  
“That’s…wow,” Lydia said.  
  
The Sheriff had to admit, it was kind of a mess. There was a somewhat orderly list of names along the left side, but the right half was a riot of lines and words and half-finished notes. But he had spent seventeen years learning to interpret this kid. Once he squinted, the Sheriff could actually kind of see the logic. The scribbles all revolved around several words spread out over the board, like “Roc/Phoenix?” and “Basilisk(Cockatrice!!!).” From there, works and ideas spiralled towards the edges: “mirrors?” “Mrs. Edgesperger,” and “LEAVE THEM ALONE!”  
  
“What’s a Cactus Cat?” the Sheriff asked, squinting.  
  
Stiles grimaced. “Probably a really big dead end. We’re trying to start with the three things that attacked this morning, but this was the closest thing I could find to the ‘giant blue cat thing’ that those two guys reported attacking them.”  
  
Parish shook his head. “Unfortunately, his police report was _severely_  hampered by the pain medication he was on. The other man didn’t survive long enough to give a statement.” He tapped his phone, sitting on the table. “I think there’s a sketch artist there now. This kind of thing is probably beyond her paygrade, but maybe he’ll be lucid enough to at least provide a general shape.”  
  
“Felines weren’t amongst any of the… things I sensed coming,” Lydia said, frowning. “I didn’t even know those two were being attacked this morning.”  
  
“Frankly,” the Sheriff said, “The fact that you caught the two attacks that you did is already a bit miraculous.”  
  
“Do banshees… prioritize?” Parish asked carefully. “There are nearly 7000 deaths in the US daily. You can’t possibly see _all_  of them. Is it a proximity thing? Or are some deaths more important than others?”  
  
The Sheriff nodded. It was a good question. Parish was definitely taking to this whole supernatural business better than he did. Maybe he was just getting too old.  
  
Lydia tilted her head, considering. “It does say in my Irish mythology that banshees would only ‘scream for the noble and virtuous’.”  
  
“There ya go!” Stiles said. “Maybe those two jerks weren’t virtuous. Maybe they deserved to be attacked by a big blue cat.”  
  
He was halfway ready to roll his eyes at the idea, but something told the Sheriff that, for Lydia’s sake at least, he should tamp that down. He _did_  make a mental note to look into the record of the two guys attacked. It’d be a long shot, sure, but he’d seen some wild things in the last month, and a hunch from a banshee was stronger than some evidence he’s had to work on in the past.  
  
He just won’t mention that he was doing it until it actually panned out.  
  
“In the meantime,” he said instead, “Alan got back to me about the autopsy he did on Mrs. Edgesperger’s dog.” He pulled the file out from underneath the mound of Stiles’s unused markers and opened it on the table. “It sound exactly like whatever attacked Scott, Kira, and Malia this morning.”  
  
Stiles draped himself over his shoulder to read the file, and whistled low in the Sheriff’s ear. “Severe acid burns, claw marks that are potentially reptilian in nature… yeah, that sounds about right.” He felt his son shudder against his back. “And, _eeww_ , his eyes were partially liquified."  
  
“But with all this damage, cause of death was… a heart attack?” Parish blinked, turning the file towards himself to read it properly. “That can’t be right.”  
  
The Sheriff shook his head. “That’s what I said, but Deaton said that the poor dog was scared to death. I don’t even know how that’s possible."  
  
“It could be a hormonal response triggered by the visual cortex,” Lydia mused.   
  
The Sheriff raised his eyebrow. He was well aware that the bounds of science were well beyond his ability to understand, but it’s not like he was an _idiot_. “Is that actually a thing?”  
  
“It’s one of the most primal responses developed in human evolution,” Lydia said. "It’s why fathers suddenly feel overwhelming attachment at the first sight of their progeny, and why people instinctively recoil at the sight of another person’s blood. If the body floods itself with a chemical compound strong enough, it can even override basic autonomous function like respiration and circulation.”  
  
“And their heart will literally stop beating,” Parish said.  
  
“Man,” Stiles said. “That’s a really rough way to go. Though petrification does support our theory that it’s a cockatrice.”  
  
Lydia let out a frustrated huff. “ _Basilisk_ , Stiles. It’s a basilisk!”  
  
“Scott said that it has _wings_ , Lydia. Wings like  _cockerels_  do.” Stiles threw his hands up in the air. “You saw it! It was in the _Physiologus_!”  
  
“Just because it was the _first_  bestiary doesn’t mean it’s the most accurate bestiary,” Lydia snapped, and the Sheriff let himself give in to the temptation to pinch his nose this time. “The _Physiologus_  claimed that _whales_  had wings. The only reason you’re fighting for this is so that you’ll constantly have the excuse to say co ––“  
  
“ _What’s important_ ,” Parish said, cutting in loudly, “is that if seeing this creature, whatever it is, was what actually causes death, we now have a clearer idea of how Mrs. Edgesperger survived, even if she’s still in a coma.”  
  
Stiles sighed, and while the Sheriff couldn’t see him over his shoulder, he did catch Lydia nodding at his son in what looked like a truce. “Yeah, you’re right. Is she going to be all right? What’s she going to do now that she doesn’t have a guide dog?”  
  
“Melissa says that she might wake up in the next couple of days,” the Sheriff said. “Apparently someone’s going to come stay with her until she can get set up with a new dog companion. A third cousin, twice removed… or something.”  
  
“Welp,” Stiles said, “I’ll add her to the list.” He patted his dad’s back on the way back to the white board, reminding the Sheriff of all the times that Stiles was little and tried to see if he could reach his dad’s shoulder just by jumping. He watched as Stiles picked up one of the markers and added MRS. EDGERSPERGER’S RELATIVE to the bottom of his list.  
  
“Wow,” Parish said. “All of these people have come to town since Allison Argent was killed?”  
  
Stiles winced, but shook his head. “No, no. Braeden thinks the barrier started cracking when Allison…died, which is why there will be  _more_  people coming into town now, but the Beacon started up before then. We’re thinking that a few spare creatures of the night managed to sneak in past the barricade before the flood gates really opened.”  
  
“Like the Yukimuras,” the Sheriff said.  
  
“So when did the Beacon turn on?” Parish asked. “With the, uh, druidic sacrifices?”  
  
“Darach,” Lydia said. “It was a Darach. And it was at the end of her sacrifices. The full set needed to be completed for the nemeton’s power to be activated, which is what triggered the Beacon.”  
  
“But we don’t know an official date to work back from?” Parish said.  
  
“September 15th,” Stiles added quietly. The Sheriff looked up at his son, swallowing as he felt his heart clench in his chest. It wasn’t like Stiles didn’t know how much he took after Claudia, what with his nose and his energy and his _god damned mischief_. But it was these kinds of moments that hurt the most, seeing the tightness around Stiles’s temples and the thing press of his lips, and seeing the echo of Claudia at her worst, pretending desperately to be _okay_ , instead.  
  
Stiles never told him what exactly he, Scott, and Allison did to save them from the nemeton, how exactly a freaking Japanese revenge demon managed to get into his head. The Sheriff had asked Scott once, and the boy refused to share, saying that the three of them agreed that he, Melissa, and Chris didn’t need to know. All Scott had said was that now, even now, they agreed that it was worth it.  
  
“Oh my god,” Parish whispered, snapping the Sheriff’s attention away from his son. Parish had been staring off to the side, brows furrowed, jaw slack. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, quickly flicking around before finding whatever he had been looking for, and then just stared.  
  
“Oh my god,” he repeated.  
  
“Deputy?” Lydia asked, leaning towards him.  
  
“This Beacon doesn’t call just regular people? You’re sure? What does it sound like?”  
  
Lydia blinked. “I… I don’t know. I don’t think I can here it, because I’m already in Beacon Hills. I can only tell that it’s one. If anything, it’s like a…a reverberation. Like holding a tuning fork."  
  
Parish licked his lips, and glanced down at his phone again. The Sheriff was about to say something when the deputy stood, carefully pulled the marker from Stiles’s hands, and walked over to the whiteboard. He watched as the poor boy took a deep breath and started writing with the same neat block letters that covered all of his paperwork, pausing before adding the punctuation:  
  
DEPUTY JORDAN PARISH          (?)  
  
"Can you do me a favour?” he asked Lydia. “Maybe let me know if your banshee senses pick up anything about me?”  
  
The Sheriff clicked his tongue and shook his head softly. It’s one thing to find out about this whole mess when a giant bird crashes through your station. It’s another thing entirely to find out you might be _part_  of the mess. He was about to say something when he felt his phone rumble in his pocket.  
  
He held up a finger as he pulled out his phone and stood up to answer. It was one of the deputies stuck with night duty. Since the station was a wreck, they got permission to temporarily set up shop at the hospital, where they would at least be close enough to be of some use if anything else cropped up tonight.  
  
“Deputy Lu?”  
  
“Sir,” the voice said on the other end, then paused. “We weren’t really…sure what to do with this, but that animal attack man, the one going on about the cat, just finished with the sketch artist. And… you might want to come down and see this.”  
  
The Sheriff winced. That kind of suggestion was never a good sign. “Any chance you can just send it to me? Email it to Parish’s phone, I can barely send a damn text message on mine.”  
  
“Uh, sir?” Deputy Lu said. “This might be a picture worth keeping… confidential.” The Sheriff scrunched his face into a grimace. That was a  _really_  bad sign. “Our facial recognition hit an inconsistency.”  
  
The Sheriff was in the middle of dragging his palm down his face when he stopped. “Wait, facial recognition? I thought you said that this was from one of the two guys attacked by the big blue cat?”  
  
Stiles was staring at him, and the Sheriff could see it, the gears turning. The kid was able to make amazing connections in seconds that even his best officers needed days for. And not for the first time, the Sheriff was overwhelmed with the fear that something might happen that would keep him from seeing his son become the best damn detective the world has ever seen.  
  
“Just send the picture to Parish’s phone,” he said, and hung up, knowing he had completely missed whatever the Deputy had said.  
  
The others had picked up enough of the conversation to know that something wasn’t right, and so as the Sheriff quietly sat himself back down at the table, Stiles and Lydia moved their chairs so that they could crowd around Parish, and they all sat in silence as they waited for his phone to ding.  
  
When it did, and when Parish opened up the image, the Sheriff didn’t even know what he expected to see, but it certainly wasn’t a woman. She looked enough like one, with full eyelashes, a strong chin, and blonde hair falling around her shoulders. Other than that, she didn’t even look all that human. Her skin was blue, all right: the sketch artist had filled in the picture with colouring, giving her odd black and yellow patterns over top of the blue, and bright, nearly glowing, green eyes. And from her mouth hung the kind of wickedly sharp teeth he had only ever seen on werewolves, except the two main ones were long and tapered, like a saber-tooth’s.  
  
Parish blinked. “Man. That guy gave a  _really_  inaccurate police statement."

The Sheriff shook his head. "What is that? Is that another damn kanima?"

“It’s…. That’s _Kate Argent_ ,” Lydia said, stunned, half turning like she heard something just over her shoulder.  
  
“What?” Stiles said, and looked again.  
  
The Sheriff could see it, if he stared beyond the fangs and the mottled skin. He had been staring at her picture off and on in the last week, trying to dig up anything that could help Derek. And the basic structure of her face was there. Not just in the bones, but in the curl of cruelty around her mouth, and in the viciousness of her eyes.  
  
“I thought you said she was human,” he said.  
  
“She _is_ ,” Stiles said. “Or she was.”  
  
“Was this part of the whole coming back from the dead thing?” Parish asked. “Is this what a zombie actually looks like?”  
  
“This isn’t a dead person,” Lydia said. “Or undead. Trust me."  
  
“Oh my god,” Stiles said, the words whooshing out of him like they were pressed out of his lungs. “Oh my god. Kate wasn’t undead because she had never died. Peter didn’t kill her. Peter  _turned_  her.”  
  
Every sat back for a moment, trying to process. “Well, damn,” the Sheriff said.  
  
“So does Peter know that Kate’s alive?” Lydia asked.  
  
“And a werewolf?” the Sheriff added.  
  
“Not a werewolf,” Stiles shook his head. “Not quite. Maybe it _is_  a kanima?”  
  
“She doesn’t look like a kanima,” Lydia frowned.  
  
“Are werecats possible?” Parish asked. “The guy giving the statement kept going on about a… giant blue cat.” He winced.  
  
“Don’t worry, son,” the Sheriff said. “You’ll get used to it.”  
  
“Does it even matter what she is, or even that Peter knows?” Stiles demanded.  
  
“It might,” Lydia said, absently tapping her pen against her lips as she thought. “If Peter was the one who turned her, he might still have some sway over her, the way he did with Scott before, even if he’s not an alpha anymore.”  
  
“Why would he want any control over her?” Parish asked.  
  
“We’re thinking that his current goal is to take out Scott,” Stiles said. “Who knows, maybe he wants to put together his own band of merry misfits to take on the True Alpha, just in case this supernatural showcase doesn’t do him in first.”  
  
“Oh my god,” Lydia said.  
  
The Sheriff snapped his attention to her. “What is it? Is it a banshee thing?”  
  
Lydia shook her head. “No, not that. It’s just… if Peter is trying to build a pack, who would he be most interested in adding to it.”  
  
Stiles sucked in a breath. “Malia.”  
  
Parish blinked. “Malia Tate? The girl lost in the woods? Why her?”  
  
“Because Peter is her biological father,” Lydia said. “Not Mr. Tate.”  
  
The Sheriff frowned. “Lydia, are you absolutely certain about that?”  
  
She nodded. “I am. And so is he.”  
  
The Sheriff stood. “Then we need to get to the Tate residence right _now_."  
_________________  
  
“Malia!” Mr. Tate snapped the moment he heard the call pick up. “Where are you?”  
  
“Outside,” she said, after a pause. “Where there’s fresh air, and trees, and dirt."  
  
Mr. Tate sucked in an angry lungful of air through his nostrils. “I told you to be _home_  when I got back, seated at the table, doing your work.” He dropped the bags of groceries on the kitchen counter, ignoring the clatter of the milk bottle and the muffled _thud_  of the bruised apple. “Why aren’t you here?”  
  
“Because you haven’t been home all day,” Malia said. “And I had things that I needed to do. A lot of things.”  
  
“And you thought it would be okay to stay out until the middle of the night?” He looked at the clock on the microwave. 7:37pm. Did her curfew mean nothing to her? “What you _need_  to be doing is studying, Malia! We agreed that you would get up to your grade-level for reading comprehension by the end of the year, and you’re still barely making it through damn children’s books!”  
  
“Dad, I haven’t been in school for _years_ , and they’ve put me in remedial programs to help me catch up. I just needed to give my brain a break.”  
  
“I didn’t give you permission to leave!” This was Malia’s rebellious stage, apparently. But that was fine. He could hear the note of guilt her tone. “I thought I had lost you for so long, and now that you’re back, I can’t even keep you in the house?"  
  
He heard Malia pause. “I didn’t realize you were so excited to spend time with me,” she said softly.  
  
Mr. Tate rolled his eyes. So this was her just acting out for attention, then, because of the evenings he spends out. Maybe she was feeling neglected. It was nothing like that. He had just spent nearly a decade living like a bachelor. He just needed some time to himself. “Of course I do! I was going to cook dinner for us. And I even bought you make-up, the same colours your mother liked. And how do you think I feel when I come home to see you and you’re gone, with what looks likes _nothing_  done all day?”  
  
“Look, I… dad?” He could almost hear her wince at the last word, awkwardly sounded out. “I do want to see you, I do. But I can’t just be cooped up inside all day waiting for you, doing math and practicing putting on eyes shadow."  
  
“You can if I say you should!” he snarled. “You’ll learn algebra and French, and you’ll get manicures and a thousand pairs of high heels, if you have to. You’re _done_  living like a wild animal!”  
  
“Well, what if I don’t want to be?” Malia snapped. “Living like a wild animal suited me just fine for plenty of years!"  
  
Mr. Tate slammed his hand onto the kitchen counter and, with a yell of frustration, swung his entire arm, knocking the bag of groceries to the floor. He grabbed for his keys and launched them at the mess. “I am the only family you have _left_ , young lady, and I will _not_  be disrespected just because your years living in the trees has scrubbed the manners out of your feral brain!”  
  
“Stop treating me like a monster!” Malia yelled over the phone, then sucked in a breath like she had realized _exactly_  what she had done wrong.  
  
Mr. Tate felt the chill of cold fury settle deep into his bones. It was comforting, in a way. Familiar. It had fuelled him for years, and it had taught him some valuable life lessons. Like how you _can_  get something you desire, even years later, if you fight hard enough for it.  
  
And he wouldn’t let some bratty temper tantrum take that away from him.  
  
“That’s it,” he said. He stormed out of the kitchen began charging up the stairs, ignoring the click of nails on tile as Apollo scrambled to get out of his way. “We’re moving your stuff to the room in the basement, where you can learn to appreciate living with four walls around you. And if you don’t like it, I’ll have you back in Eichen House by the end of the week!”  
  
He heard the click on the other end of the line and let out a frustrated roar. _Fine_. If she wanted to do this, he’d lock every door and window in the house. She didn’t have her own keys, and she deserved a night out in the cold if this was how she was going to treat him.  
  
He was ten minutes into stuffing everything he could reach in her room into a plastic bag to haul downstairs when he heard the doorbell ring.  
  
 _Hah_. There. _Now_  Malia would learn the importance of contrition. He’d take her apology, make sure she was sincere, and send her off for a shower to scrub off whatever grass and twigs she probably picked up on the way.  
  
He strolled down the stairs as the doorbell rang again. He was willing to make her wait. After it rang for the third time, he swung open the door open.  
  
Except it wasn’t Malia. It was some man he’d never seen before, with a carefully groomed beard, and nothing but a V-neck shirt, despite the cold.  
  
“Mr. Tate?” the man asked, then smiled and held out his hand. “Hello. My name is Peter Hale, and I think we need to talk about Malia. May I come in?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has general warnings for canon-typical violence, but some pretty explicit description of gore as an immediate result (specifically acid burns and wounds deep enough to reach the bone), so please watch out for that. There is also an extended scene where Lydia explores the consequences of what Peter did to her written with language specifically used to bring up rape and violation connotations, which can be less than pleasant if you're not ready for it.
> 
> This chapter is also posted without a beta read, so I'm very sorry if any typos slip past my guard!
> 
> I'm also Amelior8or on Tumblr, if you'd like to stop by and say hello!

**Author's Note:**

> UPDATE: I just did a bit of spot editing to fix some typos and sentence structure issues I had missed the first time.
> 
> I'm also Amelior8or on Tumblr, if you'd like to stop by and say hello!


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